CONCRETE

the sun hidden behind a cloud of organza
the moon hood shadowing on the skyline
of tarmac, sings a ballad of loose fists
after holding tight for a whole collapse of the night
a car pours and pulls out like a water drop
on the highway – street lights
so yellow flicker into Dickens fate
and the Moby Dick is me, upstanding
on white guidelines of foreverness

we picked up our bikes
letting the wind through our hair like fingers of lovers
straining to hold us back, she pulled at our tires
as a hill built in front of us
unveiling
the shining carcus of skyscrapers and wailers
only waiting
to become the derelict mountains of golden chains and
lock smithed articulations – I have to learn to pick locks
and buy some chain cutters

(with cameras as old as our mothers
I mourn the tarmac takeover
and epidemic of takeaway forests that live
within someone’s papers)
he can see the grave is dug, all we must do
is prod through the chasm of dirt to read the grave stone.

the clouds poured onto the ground
the sunlight stopped for a moment
and everything went blue