at best we are heros without capes
looking towards the clouds,
for rhyme, for shapes to move us
and chances to plug
whatever makes us feel important.
at best we are the opened books
being written on windshields,
before it rains. and the street cars
hum; itching for speed.
our songs collecting in ribbons
of water-like veins spelling stories
that always blame the weather
for directions lost. at best
we are a bridge, tunneling through
the wind, repenting to no one,
the tide below.
at best we are sexy spring, growing
tall the smell of newness
we are lazy summer, to hot to care
we are fetid fall, killing what can not
endure the labor of winter.
at best we are augment, with nothing
but the past to set us free.