I sat again

at that focal

            dip,

where masts bend
into a dome

            frame

that supports
a spectral
            ceiling,
that city lights

pierce

that parade and

            swivel

But when the sharp
point from Moby Dick

            fine

sea food inches

between my

            ribs

and the pizzeria

on the shore

            slides

neon into my side

and they lift

            me,

I imagine, as

wonder

            drains
onto pavement,

that skywards,
            lady

familiarity parts
the worn

            fabric
between Mars
and unknown

            suns,

says, "they who wield

electric spears want
            jerky,

not succulence." She
says I must now 

            escape.