everywhere you go
you get caught up in it
the people are the throng
and the truth
and the trip itself
is made of their shared dreamscapes
the patterns are the closest we get to religion
we do them that justice
gyrating to the new because of its title
and nothing else
but the smell of street vendors at last call
and the army of slipping heeled legs
almost broken under the weight of the night
but still too young to shame a cab