we steal art like Peruggia
planning daily escape routes
in whispers by moonlit pool.
fences and overwrought foliage

are our enemy, forest-secluded waterfalls
our lucid dream refuge (we forgot
we knew how to fly midair and fell headfirst)

old photos of eyes glued to the horizon
like a map, and we never were good at directions
(Eutaw St. in Baltimore, lipstick licked off and 50’s
how-are-you’s, sipping rum strawberry daiquiri’s,
hopelessly lost and fabulous in black leather heels),

stumbling onto a man proudly sitting in his own vomit
because he was born that way (and I think, in seven days
I could have done a better job)

and I think, sit quietly with arms snaked over waists
clinking teenage glasses to love, to the sun stretching
the distance between here and canopies dotted with
imaginary fort houses, purple violets, sangria,

and look at me, know me, kiss me
before the sun falls on Baltimore Street.