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Hearts of the South

In this place, where even the most humdrum of sunsets is one wild
                  thrum and summersault
After another,


It is impossible to relax. Even
The parakeets,


Usually so drowsy at this time
Of night, are darting from one


                                                           Palm tree to the next, having given


Up hope of falling asleep before the sun has worked its burn out
And the evening air has lost its violet flaring.


                                                                                               The rest of us just
Sit, transfixed by the wicked, dizzy ruckus of it all. Our hearts
Clenching and unclenching—


                                                           Clenching.


                                                                                                               Like fists.