Hello Urban Universe

Hello Urban Universe

The Golden Gate is a black skeleton,
Market Street is a shadow-induced aorta,

and my mother is beating
an egg by the moonlight
swelling on her countertop.

Over two SF hills, we fling
our pigment upon a forgotten Universe
suddenly throbbing
above our Sunset heads.

There must be a book
ready for purchase on Amazon
explaining the proper etiquette

of how urbanities must greet
the cosmos after an extended separation,
but we cannot afford
next-second shipping

and the constellations are calling our names.
Let's follow the crowd to the park
where Orion's Belt buckles
into the branches of a Spanish Chestnut.

They swapped out California Technicolor
for avenues of starlight
gushing into our valley-wide pupils.

Yet before long, we must rub out
gallons of white light

when our concrete eyeballs
reject the foreign substance.

Photons spill into the sewage
along Irving just as rainclouds gather
like friends in the night.