ERN MALLEY AT THREE A.M.
I am nailed down to the bar with tequila shots,
in the gilt loneliness of the nightclub.
I’m marinating my liver in margaritas.
Below the diaphragm I am paté.
The dance music is like my mother’s
heartbeat in the womb. Meanwhile you,
poor drowning soul, are drunk, deaf drunk,
hopelessly stone-cold dead drunk.
I never heard the builders come. Already
these walls have risen high around me.
I’m swimming across a threshold
and choking on a night full of stars.