August sparks electricity
where each touch is heat lightning in
every nerve like a tugboat in a bayou.
A tin can in battered waves with
a storm that barrels towards the Gulf.
Nameless and heat stricken with a
don’t-walk-on-the-blacktop hot
and Dad-doesn’t-cut-the-grass real hot.
Fingertips burn three months
out the year and I am an endless stream

of hot gulf air awaiting a name. I eat away
the edges of myself, whittling away coastlines
until all of my flesh fits within
the confines of an eye. That sweet spot
of lucidity—a knowing of where I have been
and where I am headed.

Down and only
to drown you.