the last boulevard will be a forest, like the first

the last boulevard will be a forest, like the first.
the globe will sing where the noise was a parking lot
and a municipal pith of an undreamt peach
because the scaffolding was aggressive
and the stewards were stupid and vain.

until then, i shall bivouac in the afternoon 
clutching my pewter diamonds and fetching long glances
off curved mirrors, to pigeon my hope in picnics
and parchment. love stung by the best moons
any eclipse has to offer. 

sunning in the approach of going somewhere nice
to begin with.