We move fast between
Plastic pho and neon lights,
crowning ourselves in
the leaves of blue and red trees
They advertise office supplies,
discount clothes and groceries;
we are the grunge,
basking in our line of photons
that spit on capitalism.
Planes grab sunset and pull
sunstone clouds behind their fumes
and beg us, “please, fill our twilight
with the queerest quatrains,”
But we are keyed up, above it
thin aluminum strings holding us close
as we cross the street holding onto
We fall off rhythm,
because of course we do,
Sucking lollipops woven from
purple braids and paper cups.
I was there. I held her hand.
Note this girl: she is my alpha