Sayonara

Dressed in white and whistling Lorca's Novena I will stroll sunburnt streets. My suit jacket will blow open and my loafers will kick pebbles that will bounce down the street and annouce my arrival to the back alleys. Dusk will roll across this city like a rusted wagon; the night and I will coaxe forward dreamers and liars alike.

Poets will sputter and falter when they search back pockets for words and will lose when they play dice with me. Feeling swells and spills over the rim like a glass poured with gusto; passion and summer and heat and light flood the streets. We flood the streets.