Teenagers were in heat when New York City streets uncoiled themselves from around the subway lungs to proposition a pauper hovering with candles to dream Locked Locket.
We soldier on, playing goofy games and promising our hiccups will bloom sometimes into nourishing meals for an unseen alien species (speckled at the curb).
Spaceflight spacefights were deflecting dotted curves up along the course as the alligator drew real red meat from The Exhausting Thirst Quencher.
If dreams were rivers, could we collect reflected mountains and swim with small planes beneath the frog bubbles?
We were just orchard burglars of the night, haunting some smokestack as if it could light any hunger aflame and just leave us rockets to the rainbow.
Comb your fingers through your hair and I will be your ring and signet, weaving we the snakes in crackly tubes when our ears exploded at that local show in somebody's basement.
We used to swing under fig and apple trees, but then the dawn changed the meaning of our shadows which, emblazoned in an omen, left through separate doors within the same reflection.
