if cities became rivers, our homes would be boats in which we would sail away to sea, through the windows we shall look at the starry sky luring the sharks with the promise of wings woven of silver clouds

if our homes became boats, our backyards would be seashores where we would plant trees of torment to put forth coral leaves, they shall sing chorus to the boatman’s song wandering into a grove of snakes

if our backyard became a seashore, our feet would become fins and we maysurf through the glint of the sun dipping the sea in the orange light of dementia eating lotus seeds in joyous abandon that grows in nothingness

if our feet became fins, morning glories shall shed blue ink in the reveries of dragonflies pausing by the lake of brown leaves of mulch where maple bug lays eggs we shall cough up brown leaves, more brown leaves, even more, brown leaves

the mound of brown leaves shall sigh in the mist, their sad eyes shall swallow sky and morning glories, ebb and flow of tides becoming tea-colored words on the verandahs of tomorrow that will become fallen strands of sunlight

thus, our cities shall become sunlight on the blackboards of cold classrooms on frostbitten nights, we shall rub the sunlight in our palms to light a fire dissembling, we shall map our flight to anonymity in the chronicles of migrant lilacs