[as yet untitled]

a mojo-pinned morning:
thrust against the
rear windows
of pick-up trucks,
crumpled in the wrapper
of a granola bar breakfast,
swinging between
18-wheelers and CDs.

it slams over the horizon,
scattering through the ghost
of my city, the
urban chimera
twisted around
a DNA strand of
superhighways.

now it's a trapeize,
mounted by vibrating acrobats;
then the storm tripping
over the skyline, amused--
and before all that,
throwing itself through the window,
on to the bed, spilling on the floor,
mixing with the scent of sex
and the sound of the alarm.

---
11.11.05
MWL