Nights like these, when I am less a man

more a traffic light lingering on yellow,

more feet full of running, twitching over the gas

pedal,

more snake caught between rocks thrashing,

more a radio’s needle stuck between static and

station,

coughs and crashes of what could be

song or argument,

more the image of the moon as garlic clove,

as burst and leaking light –

when tourist season makes me feel I can stop

pretending –

I know I don’t belong here, I belong everywhere.