Ben Wannamaker - Or

In this, the night of a thousand missteps,
(A night allowing nothing but missing)
We can lay on the offensive as scattered diamonds,
Stars on a blanket of crushed conniption, on trimmed
Enmity, on a supple ambiance or retraced misstep.

We’re nowhere but superimposed here, placed.
A facsimile traced us in sideway chalk, and we
Stuck like thoughts to space. We can cure this city
Tonight. We can fuel this dead block. We can
Be autographed or scrawled wherever we choose and
Our prints will last till the morning is a tree of heaven
Rising from patio stones and kept for show.

Or we can crochet fates.
Manufacture mechanical bouquets
And be insistent, ambivalent stars

Not doing, being, or saying
Any one of these things

Ben Wannamaker

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/or/