I said, “If the world is round, is it wrong to prove what I
mean by flatness?”
By License and Liberty Avenues is the public
fountain. On summer nights, it’s a pissing spot
for those who waltz near in pink, a fedora, even
one who I wouldn’t mind
— I think of it — sucking off, being me.
He’d show me his.
And what would I do I ask me. Opal is a mineral fact.
We love it.
Dawn hits the avenue hard.
He’d say, “I don’t think so, no.”
I’ll say. I will not. Why? Why not?
I sleep in at dawn
and wake up half like a beer, half like the hand
unscrewing one. O they say it’s a Moment.
It happens in time.
