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—