the median stretched out like
the neck of an abandoned guitar
playing the endless discordant
song of broad street

sinking into the concrete shelf

we stood as ever older versions
of ourselves tuned through the
drug-like orange haze of street-light-
night-light-afterglow-come-down

peering into our transparent lungs
the orange line shook underworld
thoughts loose sending them like
balloons through our feet

inhaling we grasped at the strings
but they were of too many to follow
too many to see

it was the last time looking up into
the blackness of the orb-like night
i believed there wasn’t a sky