4am, the crustaceans begin to cling
to the shadows. cigarette butts, bottles and the homeless
Where did the onlookers come from, in the stupor, does the Lethe channel here?
Forgotten, alive, the lights neon to shady alleys..until the sun crawls,
Scratching the pupils of all who call this place home, as it struggles…
For the horizon, a sea so cold, it might be made of gold,
Midas was buried there, so many..have took a dollar and sprouted thousands,
I like Miami beach, in all its obtuse angles. For the crustaceans,
And the lights. And the special moment when Apollo awakens the place,
Its not home, but its there behind the metro-rail. A dream to the right.
Not a kingdom, just a dream to the right.