Rooftop dreams have shiny edges
they dance with the wind and fly.
Fugitive dreams, they love their life
as I think I love mine.
Though I am forever
like the wise feathers, left on streets,
parked cars and grassy fields;
Like the naive pebble
never thrown too high
and the raindrops rushing down,
in captivity of gravity.
Wouldn’t mind the cats
having the leftover lies.
The chilled pint is what
my mind is really pinned to.
Little golden bubbles naked
rising up and huddling to the froth.
They share the revelation of absolute anarchy.
For they have discovered the
The mystic science
of getting away with jeering at
the captivity of gravity.