One hand rounded and pale
like a fish
suspended in the dark
cold, deep sea among ancient decaying things.

And a toreador
nightly fights a dancing pink bull
winking and coy.

In a foreign land where
creatures with horns and firm
extended genitalia

frolic.

Oh to dream of pigeons.
Not the dirty city birds, all trash and crapping and fucking,
but the wild extinct ones with dense feathers
who used to migrate in numbers excess of one million.

To dream of reconciliations,
of living in a high rise, tall waves from ocean below.

We’ve got to leave by nine
to get to somewhere else.