That they were kissing there.

And so or so, drinking. Maybe this is a hangover
my crying. Someone on
stage as always

in black and earned. Like freedom
which is also.

Follow me. We expect the lights
to dim and they do.

It was the sound of a post puckered
out after a storm that I was
happy taking place outside of.
Maybe inside him was something
thwacking like a carp. I want
to reach over myself often. Up
there he expected listening.

Listen. We're breathing.
There aren't tubes poured down
our throats. The auditorium
is swept out.
I'm afraid, pal, and it's thrumming.