This is what I think about

palpitating under 5 am peace and steady cement:

 

Between the newspaper office

and home by a ceremonial mountain

is a place called summer; our skin liquifies

 

every time we trespass in floral ties and birth certificates

umbrella-blessed against harsh winds or sunshine.

 

we have a way of protecting ourselves,

dematerializing the way stars do against nights of neon and insomnia

 

stars fading like dreams of outlanders

severed, misplaced, lost to the winds of an oceanic summer—

 

and we, glassy-eyed and lovestruck

with sick humor and ceremony, lose our sleep

 

by the hooks of our noses.