Lets start to clap our hands
to match something as loud as the dogs themselves-
making our way on a path laid in gooesbumps
of whats yet to come then-
a city within a market of open senses.

What are we running from?
Run til it catches up?
All they want is to see us buckle.

As joy is thrown to the wolves,
we'll take it all back in song,
as the root, as the main sail.

Left like an open gate with path still unannounced
and gravity lifting some folded wings from the ground-
An ant carries more than its body can bear,
to layer the backyard with the hills of its homeland-

perhaps the question is not whether or not
but whenzy