The haze of summer is full of not-quites. Not-quite-cool, not-quite-boring,
not-quite-at-ease.
I sink into plastic seats that don’t sink back; I lay in the grass, searching for a respite that
is apt but fleeting, multitudes suddenly becoming itchysingularities; I roll the windows all the
way down in my car, but the false breeze recalls winter’s contrast—thirty degrees, heat on high,
back-roads-flying: now eighty degrees, AC sputtering, back-roads-flying.
At night, I can hear the world. Everything in it has a heartbeat that is irregular and
breathless and horrible. Ceiling fan, box fan downstairs (who needs two sets of lungs?), cicadas,
cars (who needs two sets of legs?), trees, street lamps (who needs thousands of sets of eyes?),
electricity.
I’m not-quite-sure what I’m waiting for; if being “at-ease” is partial to patience, or being
hunted. I have no patience, and I’m no hunter.
I roll over; I feel itchysingularities, not-quite-here, in my bed, where there are none.
Silence radiates from the cemetery across the street, and it’s not-quite-threatening, because it
never has been, and it’s not-quite-a-heartbeat, and we’re both supposed to be sleeping–but I
listen anyway, because I always have.