Two Boys Entering the City at Dawn

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The moon, she spins and falls.

The guests flee our soiree, return

To their ghosts. Our house crushes

Into a diamond, the sun threatens

To march through these fated woods.

We two boys go forth into Manhattan

To reclaim the spirit of prophecy.

I run red lights. Tires grip, whispers

Skip. You record my dreams on 16mm,

My skull agape, collecting mist.

I slice straight through macadam

And river-mouth waves of traffic

Doubling, trebling. The day moon

Stops to watch the sunlight flash

Through windows in a 3/4 waltz.

You keep the Bolex camera rolling.

My dreams stick to silver; I see

Myself in the black and white grind

Of due consideration. We end

Where the harbor wakes and swells.

We speak of our times apart, the birth

of our fables. The psychic year is ours

to burn, or at least the negative. You drive

us across the bridge, your mouth moving

with no sound. The day consumes us.