I follow locusts. I think they’re loyal, but it’s a story.
In morning’s bleached streets and nights
of tungsten glinting, their fretted steel legs
ticker the minutes. What do I know, except I need
a thing to walk behind. The lot tagged The Devil,
red spray paint, two concrete steps. This is where I go
when the heat comes, when no one alive can tell me
how to make the day move on. She lies there, the bitch,
in a bed convex from her weight. Though it’s dusk,
I see she is the color of dirt. Though ﬂeas open
new roads through her hair, she is asleep. I hear thunder.
Some days it rumbles dry, no rain. I’m tired. The air here,
it’s like breathing gasoline. I lie down, too. A razor,
a latex glove turned inside out. I curl my body close
to hers, my lips, nose to her spine. I close my eyes.
I want the mites to leave without me, but they don’t.