Some nights--
We catch the search lights
Like fireflies. They are stuffed into
Spaghetti sauce jars, the broken beams
Squinting through a punched out
Metal lid.
A twisted Norwegian maple
Breaks the sunlight
Over our heads--
If we laugh, the rubber
Tire interrupts us,
Slams against the
Breast of her trunk
To remind us where we are.
All her tiny, nonsensical babble
Is a trip wire to last night's
Dreams, shooting up through
Us, like eel shocks. Still
We wade in deeper, and lay back
Letting the leeches suck on.
Green slime clings to
The white siding of our lives--
Still, and yet,
Our meadow hearts desire
An acid solution.
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