They were yorking, yorking all

over the city.

Hot like the fourth of July.

The crowd, wild


and the night sky bannered and bottered.

The hot hot.

The zipping but not the zippers.

They twobacked

and sometimes three.

Together, then


We dooglogged out of there,

winged to the max.

Away from

the barbecue, aunties, the river.

Free and freer.

You were not fogdood.

Betwixt boulders and parked cars—

soft soft—you let me.

Starklight, baby.

The rockets come.

The rockets come, oh yeah.

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