That moment when a whisper

arcs upward in a breath

of sky, crescendos into

a heavier sigh, then groans

outward into something

terrible—a scream

—remember the dawn-dewy

lawn, remember the first kiss,

remember the ways we dreamt

before the fall

out from under

hazy threats and

eggshells, they danced

across pollen

parking lots—

girls, boys, old ladies,

men, women,

doggies, cats—

a visceral

heated sort

of relief

they’d remember

(at least till

the next time)

their whole lives through

From the balcony, the cityscape unfolded like a sick drunk pukepuddle in a waking garden dream, it smelled sweet and barnyardy, earthy like mildew, grainy like the inside of an old beercan, but that was only the lawn below—the exhaust managed to stay streetlevel with the walkers and the hipsters, the old ladies and the bums:  they choked it in and smiled and kept going, going, going into the urban dreams far below and away from your balcony reverie.  Up here the air was clean and sharp to the breath and the city loomed in the near distance like some gorgeous hangover from a gorgeous spiky night you never wanted to end; never now, never later, never God but you DO get carried away sometimes—summary:  a good vista on a cold day, with cold drinks, cold friends.

The saxes blew sickly

pollen notes that hit

the dusty air in dead

thuds

the rhymes were boozy

and uninspired

and when the poets

fell asleep they sweat

through the mattresses

like they were scared

but they weren’t scared

only bored and concerned

about being bored

because, being poets,

they weren’t supposed to be