Diastole

I recoil, swimming.

It is evening now

and I am still save

the twitch,

save

The kid in her underwear

fingers sticky with the residue

of the day’s work

and from painting pictures

with spit in the dirt.

It is evening now

and as I toss back my

head, black

out

Everything is quiet

in the evening.

Asphalt is phosphorescent

in early March.

The falling cinders

like bread crumbs.

Leading to the corner of the state

where if you stand

on your tiptoes you can see

four different places at once.

It is evening now,

it’s dark and I cannot see

save the twitching.