The city surrounds me as intimately as night,
lights on late,
streets shower-slick and shining.
Amos Lee sings about the spirit
in my right ear,
and I’m singing with him. Loud.
Tears for some reason.
There’s such a small space to wedge all this into.
I crack open the car door and push,
water-borne into florescence
and the hum of the machinery
into which I screw my lamp.
Small Poems de Terre 