You’re all het up you say

as we burst out of Mr. Harriott’s record store

people streaming over the mall

electronic effects pinging off concrete

In Constant Springs Road you see

grey waves of heat

sunlight bubbling on car roofs

like oil in a wok

Somewhere in the distance

from damaged speakers

a Revival hymn

here a dazzling bag of blue juice

gently proferred

Ms. Ivy’s glistening head turns

and through serrated air

a hot question

Your answer has no ballast

and floats toward an open culvert

Walking into traffic

alert to the dance of cars

you feel the city’s viscous surge

Oceans roar as you tumble

into a mangled Corolla

laughing

This vibrating moment

in the grooves of

old morning

In music

het up