we pinned our ears to the pages
of san francisc’an nights
bag pipes and incense
that followed the fog
out of sewers
smoke that oozed
from storm drains
watched
horses that clopped
from atop rooftops
your irish rose
rose above escalatored steps
into mission’s glittered avenues
and you drank my metaphors
like some kind of rainbow structure
as we stood in the glass of the emerald haze
that was our drunk
II.
our silent seance
painted ferlinghetti’s image
without using paint
or words
or sign language
and it was beautiful
and we showed it to no one