Cherry blossom at nightbreak

To the boy who wears too many caps in the spirit
of trying to belong to the lovers who won’t have him,
remember that the city is always remaking itself,

and all of us in it. You see the changes best at nightbreak,
when the waking moon slides into its future as trend
forecaster – not fortune teller, as that would be gauche

in the micro apocalypse. The reflection in the capsule
brand shop window tells you: mount up steer, be a plastic
t-rex in a flatbed truck. Swish your tail, and talk the most

powdered hornswoggle to the girl with the bob and the golden
nose-ring who says stop treating love songs like contracts, and
instead sing to me that the best place to be kissed brimful is

under the cherry blossom every Saturday night, before they
float away into the crown of July’s heat of forgetting.