Like a wino, I trolled the streets
in search of an elixir for my
melancholy. A Virgo with gold
in his teeth lured me into his lap
and sang songs about the fraudulent
landscape. The purple sky
is invented for you. The purple
sky is not among us. When his hand
traveled south, I blushed.
I left when tomorrow made sense.
That's the way a walk renews.
One makes her way through
the imperfect city. One discovers
how the natural world is people
with hand puppets. People shivering
metal sheets for thunder.
Then one squints her eyes
to fuzz it more, to prettify.