BAR FLUNG

silk dumb in nightclub armor
she tries to spread the body of our touch
past tampon machines, deep hair black
trimmed sharp on all sides, sweat tables
of a tiny beyond, keyboards beaten
by concrete lips, voices tuned
to the rhythm of a smoke-lit picnic
platform exploding, kerchiefs spun
round broken intermittent heads,
palm trees in the wrong place
dishes of soil steaming
the petri of new lives
a mouth unrhyming all known circuits