It's late.

Swirling lights, tattoos and ruddy skin,

laughs and pictures

leaning crazily.

They could really do

with a room, roped off

on which to pontificate

gesticulate and share a million

and three secrets and stories

bled from the bowl that starts...

...and ends with your city face,

your birch frame and sweet breath,

patterned with detritus of dried

merlot,...

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