In the ordered rectangles of a balcony
A view unhinges in metered portions:
I rope-swing from space to space.
There, between two gods of fire,
Pass tobacco and weeds,
Tinder to a coronation of smoke and
Maybe mirrors.
And under the choked collar of indifference
I invoke a bowl of poppies and summon
Nostalgia, cut with Ambition.
From where I am,
I can hear the hundred rotors
Spinning with a hundred motors in the sky,
Their light rope-swinging among the park avenues,
Flushing out dangerous folly.
| | loves_bitch3 (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.2){kind=small} loves_bitch3) wrote, |
- Mood:
awake
Summoning Nostalgia
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