There are no circumstances under which
the lights of your voices
fail to move.
Situationists bark and honk and who knows?
Maybe they are standing on the corner waiting with us,
Still hoping for that big yellow taxi.

But I wouldn't bet on it.

They are the revolving door people, the ones
With ins and outs that run circles around your eyes
And mine, the wide awake and the sleepy one
The one's seen too much and wants to close
and open
Despite us.

Electromagnetic fields draw hyperbole
and we laugh and suddenly
everything is so serious.

And so?

Are we not still capable of blinking,
Of wiping the lenses clear,
And seeing anew?

It's all I can do to stay here
With too many loves,
greedy, confounded.

And if you keep singing I will
Try to unhear
What you didn't mean.

Anyway your voice travels on
Without us, through galaxies,
never
Lost or unsure,
never
contained, unmappable.

They drank some wine 100 years ago
And it sparked a revolution
That had nothing to do with us.

Go figure.