And if the pieces fell tonight,
would I reassemble,
or smash another window,
for doors swing neat the parting?
Would I grease the pavements slick,
glide skated to the next time?
No, I stick to the walls like orange tar,
loosed by the fumes of us,
thin, waxen, inflamed
and layered by the smoke of us.
No, this night was not drawn for parting,
more, it is drawn as curtains, long
below the sill, hidden, familiar
as the scent of heat, rising
from an iron lung.