Moontop Myths

Let’s swim to the moon, (ah-ha)
Let’s climb through the tide

pretend for a moment that this maze
of rooftop quadrants cradles me

your head a pillow book somewhere
near my breast beating hymns

to smoke; shorter than signal flares
siren wails and red carpets’ glare.

I’ve a thorn in my side
the same in English as in Spanish

it’s the rub of dirt still drinking water
now latched onto my lips

we’re the severed garden
wishing away the boneyard’s gravity

west of the sun, in the cut of evening
shameless grammar in filching flirts

with someone begging ever yet more.
Unhook my skin from the night

so that it might drape us over with yellow
stars the color of el camino headlights,

pushing wheal barrows of dust into wind
seems possible when we’re left to

Penetrate the evenin’ that
the city sleeps to hide