gap-people, aromas of awful thought,
surround, on bar-stools
in lugubrious multitude. Their kicks consist
of getting radiated with neon
cancers in three forms, their zippers all
pointing to the end.
these alien familiars, whom we all
know brightly, in a damp light.
These aunt-and-uncle robots.
All bars hold them. All illusions are swept
under their rugs, to stay in the house unseen,
laser criminals. Two red leaves in a pot
of green tea, swirling and swirling.
Two oysters in a melting ice-bucket.
Appearing to love each other
without any visible language.