Floors lit to the top,
all kindred and distant dancing,
bulbs turning that hold the nimbus steady,

voices electronically carried
to one place, in its thousand
fragments, tusks on the shirts
and faces, their recorded dusk,
the dark blue ad lib,
a mercury arrow

pouring through their scenery,
and my way out,
and the keyboard laughing
and the one woman hovering
over the doorway
and the puddles that seethe
and then sit quiet

throughout the heaving
tar cake.