twenty minutes till midnight and we're
keeping it turning, like little wheels
of clockwork intelligence behind the scenes.
she's gone through literary prose, stanzas and
syllables, climbed brick walls and
broken dams.

baby, this is where we are
today,
breathing, drinking, living poetry,
sprawled on the backseat of a ford sedan,
fingers crossed and toes curled to
wish upon a falling star--
but all that's left are bright city lights,
beautiful only from
above.