The streetlamp colors us,
bleeding light, being on top of things
and all I can see are its circle-spots
drawn on like Communion wine.

I am its wife and its husband,
but every digit has waned to nothing,
must be related to the cold weather.

Only God has memories of such
paper flowers and stems, before real-
ness had happened somehow –
only God grew flora from pavement.

And now the best kind of wild,
the best, most dancing air above our
heads? Does it know the memories

implanted in ourselves, or in it?
I think I must be an android or love,
just a feeling for intoxication
beat the kind of color found inside.