Lampposts are smiling.
We're wading in the streams
Of the gutters, swarmed by
Wrappers and cartons,
Fading into the mists
That rise like Moccasins from
The dank water and
Strike the urban aureoles.

Miles downstream a
Lake is found, and it
Is hungry, nipping
The meandering moss
Of the rocks encircling it.

And on we go swimming
In the streets, blind and
Helpless, hopeless,
Vapor fracturing the
Paths of sight, and
Loss purifying me.

But I am not Amphibious.
You loose you grasp,
And my fingers go numb.
Stone wash denim,
Blackened, it too
Fracturing, and in some
Way of inspiration,
Numbing me.