In a lobby of sorts I just happened
to find a hand with no stake under
the wake of a gabbing bunch of drunks,
I, one, also unsure of what knitting
had come undone in your dress,
swore bats escaped from beneath
so the bell could slowly toll over,
while we witnessed (whatever the
opposite of a hole is) unthought lump
sums of tummies unable to consume.
Soon the room came back to, and
bats had taken to attacking the
waitresses with only ears, a warm
unsaid word turned to lifetimes of
abuse; old soul songs recalled to record,
past the rips of the bong. An ashtray
for later, unprotected butts wait in empty
glasses and paper to dissolve those who
were never there (in makeshift wings)
to unravel what (at best or worst) may
potentially reoccur. Now Dawn, again,
has risen the dream undone. Now we
drift in infinite bliss for the moment.
You, too, in the light begin unbeing.