The hang-out was successful. Everyone leapt into the jet
jumble, the pressed sweat, the street. Everyone attempted
to not get beat. So many lengthy legs, so few candy, so sky
what. We made it under a map of the Great Lakes, rotating
around such friends as Jaffer, Matt, Molly, and Lana. The park
was fringed or flanged or on fire. We walked in the part
the stars licked. Someone misread woe as whoa, stepped back
in awe under the already-mentioned stars. Other smokes
passed between each stoop as we dissected the spoke
system of a bicycle’s wheel.
I wrote this poem after visiting some friends in a large city.