Glass breaking and then laughter
under the open window—
a rabble of carousers
drains through the night, blotted
quickly, although still
trickles of their abandon
silver the great cave:
this is a taste longer
than echo. And their strength
is to drink quickly, hear
only their jangle strike,
tinkling day into blank—
the slaves of Tigellinus
smashing a flagon, young
fascists, and not so young,
in brotherly numbness.
Their bar lies two streets over.
And dumbly I drift out
on that sound when I meant
only to listen further,
go while my body darkens
at the cool window, out
where the night weave tatters through—

blacker bitch of the crossroads,
moon in your tooth and hearth
in the smoky geometry
of your throat, from a whelp
we have known you and yet
only in the weight
of our having done nothing well
do you press home.