In the places I like to be
there are middays of profound heat,
and the late afternoon breezes blow in
and the people who belong there say
“it comes down from the hills”
or “here the river turns this way”
or “the breeze blows off the sea”
and I think how nice to have
this accountable part of your life
like a porch on the west side
or wild mint by the hydrant.
I remember the street cafes of Cali,
a terrace in San Antonio,
a screen porch in north Louisiana,
and the times in the Northeast I sat
on a fire escape in the sluice of two buildings
and waited for the air to shift,
to rest me before night set in
