It's hard to know whether today or yesterday was the full moon;
excitement isn't rigorous. It's just river-silvering
blent with the odor of silt where the roofs spike
along a repurposed waterfront.
A beach ball floats above the pressurized stream;
it is disequilibrium that keeps it there. Soap's expressed
as blisters when even gravity works backwards
at the limit of the ball held upside down inside the loop.
Rewards in a game they play against themselves
--"Fancy curtseying as you're falling through the air"--
the shade breaks up beneath the oaks
tithing their gifts against the curriculum
of an armed galaxy. It slides into focus for the instant
I'm brrr, blurred.