Who Says?
Pigeons curry favors from children eating gelato in the piazza.
Old flower sellers grow bioluminescent at dusk.
Orchestras strike up the Internationale at once in every time zone.
So correct your cafe espresso with a little grappa and get going.
Whirwhirwhirwhirclick, goes the machinery of dream.
Loudspeakers all tinny, and it’s Bowie with all the young dudes.
A platoon on the platform, they choreograph an astral projection.
They make a production out of it.
That was exciting.
Where are you going now?
