On a night not quite morning,

the moon outlined the kids

like a ghost world pencil sketching.

And as haunting and hallowed as it was,

they didn't care for any of that.

Or the sweet wind in their faces,

Or when their bodies might groove

to something like music overheard,

Or even to the wheels they moved

that moved them.

They cared only for the incoming

and oncoming eyes of light

and spots of shattered glass

and keeping together,

which meant staying alive,

to do it again when the time was right,

when the world might think

it wouldn't see their like again.