Blue moons toppling
a string of tumbleweeds
against a scarlet horizon,
pouring upon
formless stretches
of a lonely desert,
melting ever so slowly,
like Dali’s clocks.
Endlessly they go,
round and ’round
and around,
rolling
ever faster
to winds of comfort,
echoing in the hollow,
dirt-ridden ale
of a swashbuckling pirate:
the joy
of a night
only just begun.
Prancing and
striding
and swaggering:
hands entwine,
and branches sway
to sweet
melodies
of finches
in song.
On and on
and on,
the tumbleweeds
stumbling along without care,
past endless
bulbs
of tangerine light:
an owl’s
flickering
eve.
Past and past, past
the drumming
of voices
colliding,
Past and past and past:
the street a rhythmic blur;
the night a knot, yet
to be tied together.
