In this heat everything is pulsating. I can barely keep my hands from shaking in the beating sun, the pounding underneath my skin that lifts my belly up again. Those flowers are wilting. I put water in the basil jar. Its neighbor is a pile of cigarette ashes, next to millions of floating thoughts I cannot stay awake for.  No matter how bloodshot and distressed I'm willing to let myself appear. For now, there is the melting of the dirt into the floor, my hands grasping for peace before sinking unsatisfied to my sides.