The Laugh

Insomniac stars dimly glim,
sand on creased, sweltering sheets.
That wet wool against the skin

is only air, only heat.
Little moves in the dull hum
of window units, only a fleet

delirium of moths, numbed
under the sodium vapor lights
to the bats’ methodical ad libitum.

The odd car, sealed tight
on a machined bubble of May,
vents mephitic fahrenheit.

These are the hydrocarbon days,
this is life’s toxic ooze;
now we while our time away

with G and T and BTUs,
to damp the spinal xylophone’s
abominable bugaloos.

Laughter splashes cobblestone,
ripples out to gently rock
the huge inhuman black alone.