This bar grew from stone and wood,
russet and cream.
Trees lean on the porch, nonchalant.
I'll take what he's having.
Hear: phrases sung from in-between. 
        	Strange babies, 
        	microphones desirous of lips.

Buddy's car was having trouble, 
brakes like grinding teeth.
Overhearing, someone fixed it 
without saying a thing.

One table collects candles from the others;
they divine in flames reams of words,
faces Midas-oiled.
Without power, the set moves acoustic. 
        	Two inscribe a circle: their voices are caves,
cloisters of scarce-seen motes. Light falls far from here.
Guitars've outgrown us. Drums move inward.

I touch you, in the way it was before language,
and my lungs brachiate into song.