Make your own free website on Tripod.com

 

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