The thief's hat is afire

The wires have been pulled from underneath the birds. The lines of longitude and latitude have been peeled from the earth's face. They've been woven into a rope that holds fast a swing on which a damsel after your own heart approximates flight. If you were to look up to ascertain what rafters hold this swing, you'd have to lean so far back that your crown would slip off your head, prince. The dizziness would resemble circling an enormous landmass in a nutshell ship: your imagination could not contain the entire coastline at once.

On the longest day of the year in the city that never sleeps, you rose from troubled dreams of her tresses: that she might weave them into a rope for some pirate to scale. If it did not snap, you would have to hang yourself with that rope.

In the market, you cannot find the shoe to fit her foot.