Leaving The Heretic for an after-party
at Masquerade, the two of us still
wanting and awake in that city where
those who legislate such things forbid
the sale of liquor at this hour. Thus
the crush of shirtless flesh sways
numb within the pulse and surge,
forming and unforming
in circles. We separate,
each searching for something
long gone. I ask someone
at the door if we can go out
and come back in. Moonless
and starred, the night
nearly over. One of us—the one
no longer here—begins to sing
“How Soon is Now?”
You shut your mouth—