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:

Hopler 3D Book