Beaded birds strung on telephone wires

in the eyeshadow blue sky 

covered by clouds traced with liquid gold liner

that flashes in shop windows

and sparks off the glass of the city. 

God is a poet, an artist, a dreamer

who sketches out the concrete and metal 

with old ink pens

and washes over it all in watercolors. 

The neon colors and cigarette smoke and white strung lights

draped over the trees at night

that reach their roots down under the pavement 

into the dark earth

to drink in the mysteries underground. 

I breathe it in, 

the tangle and choke of city streets 

filled with people all looking for eternity in the moment 

and the moonlight glinting off bare shoulders. 

I see God grin in the reflection of an empty bottle, 

standing drunkenly in the hazy lights like faraway stars, 

just the two of us in a quiet pocket of the universe

where the noise fades to a steady patter of rain and footsteps. 

It's three a.m. 

and I wonder if we'll ever meet again