At midnight, the valley
is as warm as a body.
Your body.
No breeze stirs the leaves
of the Dutch elms
on Elm street.
Just the songs of crickets,
and a faraway train
hauling cotton or chemicals.
The smell of wild summer grasses
and wet pavement
where the wild broken sprinkler
spits into the street
after a hundred and five
degree day.
The mud in the garden
between the roses
is cool on my toes.
Something frightens the crickets,
they go silent. And the rumble
of the train has faded away.
All I hear is my breath
until I hold it. Now I hear
my heartbeat. Can’t stop it.
