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.
