When getting there is half the fun but nearly empty,
the wood nymphs cart-wheel halfway out their minds.
Their giggling gallops over pawn-shop rooftops
like a dogs' noses dipping to water.


We'll drink with grandeur gestures
poised in the warrior-ridden bell towers of sin and love
where we groaned like mules stomping
unnecessarily chipped, run-down steps.


Our cackled coughs ripened with jollied folk tales.
Our eyes starry in a tortoise-shelled puzzle of nostalgia.
Our whims were gently rocking swingsets under cloudy canopies
and no one skipped a beat on the journey.