perfect still trees
on the summer street
a rollerblader floats through
in dotted half rhythms
a guy that looks like Clark Kent
walks five dachshunds
on lines splayed out
like spiderwebs
a dad rolls his beloved toddler by
everything goes on and on
on the summer street
without a final finishing
no center holds
but rims proliferate
and they connect like molecules
nobody needs to ask
where will it all lead
on the summer street
it led here, it came to this
it hooked up like this
no Gog, no Magog
threatens the summer street
no crack, no rocket-propelled grenade
disturbs the perfect still trees
and strangely nobody ever prophesied this
no Nostradamus ever predicted
the world
will just go on and on
