These streets they
light into us like
waffle cone whipped suns
reeking permanent
reprehensible dawn of
afternoon trade -

carnivore carton carts
brimming blue rolling red
their way down the
coarse grain streets.

Their wheels brown wood
sandpaper rubbed
brown smoke
elbows smooth prattling
bells bellowing for

ice cream dark cookies
ice cream and cream
ice cream quite rocky,
we are

a road rising mellow and marsh
dreaming mallow yellow lazy
Sunday evenings.

Street lamps dinning bright white
cloth white ringing
church bells gold
smooth bells pure
sugar,

not cloying nor uneven
pouring down
levelled pavement catching
its taste but forgetting its
waffle cone
crumbling -