Starlight and empty sidewalks, closed storefronts and cicadas,
when did I first define solitude as standing adjacent to objects
without touching? The streetlamps sputter Luna moths akimbo,
a frantic arousal, their rinse of wings.
If no one arrives, I’ll stay anyways, among the nouns, and their qualifiers,
breathing into my flushed fingers, my fragrant hands.
In a clemency of wild air my body bristles like an orchard cast in color, cleft through