#66

Rolling down Main Street in a horse-drawn carraige
with bass drums for wheels,
on my arrival, the skins burst and shoot
confetti into the crowd.

By crowd, I mean the street lamps
the stitch into this sidewalk, hold
the city together for parades
and grand debutante reveals.

Standing on the platform, raising
a cane to the sky and calling on the lightning
to divide the town in half, and then
quarters, and then eighths, and then . . .

Where we will all stand on stabbed slabs
of concrete, resting in the pool of lava
that is the current under this city,
all connecting in the symphony,

all with a ribbon of flame between.