It’s Wild Out Here

Coins in a wishing-well glimmer
insects scatter from rubber soles in the garish glow of night
out of reach
in reach.
Like being in love with a dying man
now we know
we were born to die
we were born to dream.

A crashing symbol.
A piano key.
A house of cards.
A swagger in the wind.
A dancer on the high.
That which lies between friend and lover
between fast and slow
between young and old.
Dinner on the table
crashing to the floor.
Now we know
we were born to die
we were born to dream.

They are snowballs
they are ignitions.
The beat of a dream
a coin in a well
a deck of cars
a broken glass
a fox lying, dead, on the shoulder.
We were born to dream
and it’s wild out here.