Night in the tropics

by Sara Fitzpatrick Comito

Powerline horizons
mark a growing distance
from a rising moon,
slack tambourine
for a listless player.

Yellow beacons
of apartment windows
crochet a comic street
noir against a gesso
of date palms.

Dead fronds slap
barkless trunks like rakes,
shaking out the day.

A dog runs toward traffic
and unseen neighbors
all die together.
An extra second
is added to the clock.

High rises spring up
like teeth - as we
finally inhale -
false mountains
and a moon drips
off the page.