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.