On a heat-soaked night in July,
the pulse of America
can be found throbbing rhythmically
in back seats, alleyways and run-down motels.
oblivious to the formalities
of race, creed, gender and ethnicity,
glisten half-naked in artificial twilight,
writhing and twisting
in a tangled mass of limbs
and hopeful denial.
Hands grope and fumble for meaning
but find only foreign flesh
by the penetrating proximity
Poem: Across America © 2012 by Shawn Radcliffe / Branáin