Touching arms lead north
where the lights shimmer green and gold.
Under which we sail
for downward turns are guiding.
A moss-lace back; green
and writhing we scuttle forth.
Hands rush to a beat
beneath currents that form our future.
To hasten is to be free and
solitary, without dilemma and dehydrated thought.
Let me go to a foamy crazy
as these undocked knights watch onward.