In this place, where even the most humdrum of sunsets is one wild
thrum and summersault
After another,
It is impossible to relax. Even
The parakeets,
Usually so drowsy at this time
Of night, are darting from one
Palm tree to the next, having given
Up hope of falling asleep before the sun has worked its burn out
And the evening air has lost its violet flaring.
The rest of us just
Sit, transfixed by the wicked, dizzy ruckus of it all. Our hearts
Clenching and unclenching—
Clenching.
Like fists.
Further Reading:
