we pinned our ears to the pages

by blake ellington larson

of san francisc’an nights

bag pipes and incense
that followed the fog
out of sewers

smoke that oozed
from storm drains

horses that clopped
from atop rooftops

your irish rose
rose above escalatored steps
into mission’s glittered avenues

you drank my metaphors
like some kind of rainbow structure

as we stood in the glass of the emerald haze

that was our drunk

our silent seance

painted ferlinghetti’s image

without using paint
or words

or sign language

and it was beautiful

and we showed it to no one