A Mind of Summer

Though the heat keeps me sleepless, I resist

the air conditioner, prefer the feel of outside.

A likeness of myself moistens the sheets.

Listening to nothing-all sound

smothered in air too heavy to carry

even the smallest vibration-I imagine

I hear papery wings fanning a breeze,

snakes lengthening along the coolest surface

they can find, a deer shifting

its weight, licking a humid leaf.

Then something, maybe the weight of heat

itself, sets a dog off, a long, slow,

echoing wail disappearing like a vapor

trail, then starting again as the last wisp

of sound fades. Over and over. Like a word

repeated so many times it becomes pure,

the dog's voice becomes the sound of being

alone and knowing it for the first time,

like the alley I walked past last winter,

the day a color between coal and smoke,

when I saw a pair of legs disappear up the black

steps of a fire escape, and a woman leaning out

a window below, calling, over and over, a name

I couldn't make out, but the sound hollow,

empty of anything but itself calling itself.

I couldn't stand it and walked on, the voice

becoming my own voice calling my own name.

I can't stand it. I go outside and look

long into the darkness, the silence

for the vague shape of dog.

It must have run when it heard the door.

Back in bed, I wait for it to start

again, and think a few times that it has,

but it is only my mind doing tricks,

rolling over, fetching its own stick,

circling the spot it will sleep on.