A coffee mug that clinks with ice-chilled red wine
with me as I sleepwalk to watch the midnight urban works
the urban works patch at something of the buried rivers
swallowed by the gods of the city, piped-in, piped-through.

I want to swim through this pipe like Mao at Changsha
I want the pipes to push me out to an open sky
I want to swim back to find a defeated revolution
Uniformed men, mounted on horses, euphoric,
who shoot the retreating crowd with cotton candy.

Then to breathe the pink sunrise of their promise;
Then to drink from their piped-in promise
pressed into ice cubes for my bitter wine.