Little Feral Dew Drop

Little snow drop parachutists – listen.
We are tilting left towards Cinema.
Our mother of fabric, lime green
intentions. Hoop skirts and hula hoop
rosaries in sky-way swings.
O Eiffel Tower, O Lady Liberty, your croissant beret.
Your plum affection is in the delegation
of crimson saltshakers, the blueprints of upside
down cocktail-aunties. And the dancing,
dancing along Madison-Avenue’s nightclubs
of Heaven. Tumbling seeds of renewable
resources. The eclectic electric slipper. A banquet
offer to sessional relations between torrents
of toes. March, March. Marching drunk to
the archway of the sea, the green algae seaside
inside Heaven awaiting New Year’s lyrical bells.
Pearl doublets, buttons spinning. Deft hands
weaving from inky bandstands surplus April’s
dripping life jackets. All new, some older. All at
the ready, spun from winter fleece by
tailors, milliners, the husbands and wives of miners,
with electric heaters, coral diver’s
tenebrous winks.