Grenada Street

There was no such thing
as weather before then:

sullen clouds grayer than
the easy swing of her eyes,

heaviness of red petals
in the cobblestone gutters,

orange light barely illuminating
our desperation to rip apart…

The electric pools reflect
stars coming out to breathe,

buried behind haze for too long,
or not long enough, we drink

black night into kaleidoscope
views, haunted harmonica

dancing in the wind with him
as he goes into the front range,

gulping our psychedelic lips away
from each other, every last drip.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s