Basil on the windowsill limps 

And furrows in the teasing breeze. 

Eucalyptus leaves curling and dry,  

Spread their scent across the table 

Cloth like an offering, shouts from 

Men in the distance. This summer is long

And hungry, and the tide is always edging

Closer, forward. Sweat grows like mold 

On every pore, four 

Stalks of grey sage

Stand tall and already dead.

The floor is not swept, the sun

Keeps pushing its body whole

Into my home, an unwelcome guest.

What do I own? The windows open,

The day unmine. 

Coffee, lukewarm and settled, waits 

For my untouched lips, listless, still.

The truck’s restless moan

Eats my morning like a worm

Through soft wood. The sky

Undressed from its night

Reveals itself in small, geometric shapes

Between buildings. In the window across

Behind half-closed shades 

A man walks then bends 

Quick to lift — a blanket? A single 

Shoe thrown behind the sofa?— 

And disappears. The day is white 

And unannouncing, an ocean 

Of loud sounds, waking then breaking 

Onto the city streets. A lover sleeps

Spread like a starfish at the edge

Of this town—dreaming a childish 

Dream, breathing a childish breath—sour and 

New, sex a wave of hard then

Soft, then hard again—my only homing.