nyosis

glimmering steel rims on painted bird camero, swinging in screeches
downtown in watercolor afternoon, effervescing ancient rituals from
spherical rotations revolving in brainwork, thinking softly about loving
you and life, drinking coffee on the dashboard.

Eyes gaping at talented repose beneath picaresque columns, Samson beneath
the veil of visibility, roaming like a hurricane through the blind-eyed
drama of urbane department store glitter and bank credit manuals, steering
his feet with the handlebars of dreams and dreaming with the bicycle chain
of simple engines, ever long and soft.

Greyhound station after telephone call after telephone call, they drink us
in with thine eyes so lusciously opaque like sunset in a cup of coffee, the dark
night of world's black half living inside of us.

"Oh, so your bus leaves tomorrow?" And a laugh.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, well, you know the old story about tomorrow.

We smoke our cigarettes in eloquent wisps of blind emissions, we call collect during intermission, and we make solace seem like a tranquilizer, sleep like a pale fish curving nightwards in elegant sweeps of pearl-laden tail, we awoke, we awoke, if only just to sleep again in this transient dream.