In summer heat the city terrifies as buildings bend.
You do  not  touch their frame  but want  to lean
on  something sturdy like a page. Maybe a page
that lives in a book that remains on the nightstand.
It’s  furniture that swims in your brain. At least
the root is there, grounding you before wandering
like a whiff of  jazz down the alley. You follow
to forget the words, lured by a louder sax, never
thinking of the steps leading to music. Sometimes
steps flex while crowds are sleeping, sometimes
they switch places with the rails. You rarely stop,
you never think about how touch can displace
steel, the shimmer you leave in your wake.