Storybook

Into the never-never ever-ever after,
Peter Pan and Alice,
pointing up,
to the blast-off engines,
never reading
through the clouds
formless but heavy
in the sky,
the way up sky
into the overriding conscious
somewhere unheralded
never after,
falling after upwards,
into the almost blue,
the chlorine blue
like waves teetering on
through no and yes
into maybe
gambling ever,
for the vision she took,
stealthily took,
and art in the sky
jammed like quarters
into lifeless-giving machines
on the burning planks of the boardwalk