Dogs bark, at least a block away.
The night is quiet, with crickets.
Nobody has fired a gun
tonight, I notice, nobody
within earshot. Bougainvillea
grows purple, grows white, festooning
the fence with spikes. Black paint flakes off
electric gates. Birds have peep peep
pipitted their new calls long since,
the close-of-day chirrups picked up
from alarm systems, not long since,
and now perfected. The city
keeps changing where the district lies,
seldom within its lines. The hill
shows a few lights, more than it had.
The Savannah uncoils with walks
unwalked, during a friend’s absence.
I’d fly there now. If I hadn’t
eaten so much salt, I’d fly, now.