Moonlight slept quiet beneath the grandstand,
like flower petals, like highway snowstorms, like each thought
not of November or battlefields. My moping climbed
the Pegasus inside my chest which sped me to you
in this last century of petrol, with my socialism wanting.
I dropped an ocean in the penny. It was November. It was
lost. My wish slept beneath the Pegasus, quiet
as a petrol station or the monotony of socialism,
as if each lesson was not separate from the thought,
but from the ballot box. Like a snow globe of wanting.
Like wanting thoughts not to be octaves. Not free
of the ocean, but of the battlefield. Like a grandstand
sleeping in moonlight, its flower petal confetti, its metal
steps like ballot boxes, sleeping empty now
beneath a dropped ceiling of balloons.