Negative Fourth Street

the afternoon is growing its wispy beard
as the blankets are pulled up over our heads
and the night tent is pitched as the sun is gently stuffed
into the next ostrich hole—

and i’m halfway up the rungs to the rooftop,
from where we count the street numbers
all the way to the water, where they continue
out of sight and mind,
seaweed hanging from the streetlamps
like mistletoe, or so we assume—