Carousel

Dense night is a needs thing.

You were lured

     in a luminous canoe

said to have once ruled

     a lunar ocean.

     The 2 am soda pour

of stars is all but silent;

only listen — 

   sedater than a sauropod

     in the bone epics

it spills all the moon spice,

     releasing a sap odour

          that laces

     us to a vaster scale

          of road opus.

A carousel of oral cues,

these spinning sonic coins.

A slide show of old wishes.