The engines move
like inward thoughts
in the deep summer night

I hear them
through the crack of the balcony door
at shifting distances,
varying heights,
in different directions

like howler monkeys
and parrots
in the jungle:

engines
speaking in different RPMs
and intensities;
some merely puttering at idle,
in conversational mode;

others revving high
in Harley-Davidsonian
down dead-straight motorways
under the numb passageways of the stars
at the unforgivable speeds
of tunnel vision

But there are engines
that gather the lukewarm night
into a distant susurration,
bringing to mind
the cosmic background noise of eternity
and the periodic table
rocking gently
in the species-rich flora
of the roadside ditches