Not sure what’s mildewed
(maybe a cloud?). What yet
dies while the author doesn’t,
zaps lightning into pools
of smoke we then gather
into DVD boxes (yet again
before Netflix)? And
humidly. Oh, that we’ll
kiss like this always, Azadi
Tower swooping behind
fuzzy yellow petals (amid
which our faces act as
miniature television sets)!
Go! Go, like a fashionable
thief, or a gleaming orange
atop spundrift haystacks!
The ones us bent pumpkins
can never quite undance.
