the avenue throws flat teeth at the moon:

in the evening a single sided coin, indicating roundness,

a tangerine phosphorescing in plastic bag.

it is bagged, the moon, and the woman

sighs against her crescent toed shoes

while a thunderous shadow of teeth

afflict the pitted moon, which the woman

keeps in a pocket to save for the afternoon,

swallowing pieces, spitting seeds.

the artillery of the street batters her ears,

hums against the weight of her tangerine

and her moon, chatters her teeth, bears her heels

along the flat avenue, which carries shreds

of a confetti donkey lately bursted

with chocolate coins papering the streets

like dimes of gold leaf. she can feel

her feet taking root, the artillery of cars

pushing through the drums of her ears.

she will become a gold statue, a daughter

of midas, frozen throwing arm in midair

to try and send some part of her self to the moon.