Estival Notus

You run through the night. Lights reveal you With arresting orange incandescence. The Spanish moss runs through trees like lace Made of barbed wire. The heat— It stirs. It burns. The air is humid, Stagnant and Foul. It chokes You feel as The heat slaps you The rot tangles you in salt marshes A Southern night Of running away from the chainsaw cicadas And manipulative hospitality