city of gold

City of gold.
Painted Styrofoam.
The rain doesn’t fall,
    it grows.
From hazy roots to confetti cannon clouds
     where the musicians are found.
Champagne flutes,
    sticky glitter.
Sticking to the eyes of those who
    litter the streets
like maps.
And swim through the aftermath;
    a storm of warmth
          and a story of old,
                making way for the new.
City of gold,
     your river misplaced his water.  
I see silver.
Molten metal,
  running underground.
Not blood,
   but a pulse that feeds your heartbeat;
     a bass drum on concrete.