It is so deep this, enough
to coat and weigh the uvula, something
sour and foul stuck in our wigs, between the
peacock scales in the mermaids cleavage
and the fibers of the scallywag’s sash
a rat battered in acerbic acid and
baked in the fog machine. No breath in the tent
no breath in the mass of bodies in the alley
by the dixie toilets. They are so drunk
they are laughing; they are dressed as animals
and cannot remember their fear, only feel
and stampede in and out, beer, knees, breasts
blinder now than in the nebel, the crushing lungs
I am going back in, Hannah says to me
her pink eyelashes are slumped in the stuff
and the tent has been aired, but
I am afraid to die.

february tenth, seven twenty-eight AM to seven thirty two AM, 2010