Nocturnal Summer
by Evan Harrison
The paraphernalia of dreams:
unsettling, violent, but so vague
as to be forgettable. How?
And from where? I hear
sharp voices rising
from the alley or
the base of my neck
until the heat caresses
my chest with impatience.
I awake at the window
looking down at them:
heavy bodies, breaking
holes into low orange light,
a hooded girl shaking
the bolted church doors,
like a bird, let’s get in.
and a boy, his deep voice
tucked in smoke,
what the fuck if Sam gets caught?,
the drunken, greased syllables
breaking every lock
until we are together
on a black plane of pavement,
mattress top, breaking
through backyards, getting caught
on clotheslines, giggling
until the sun returns.
