Small jolts animate the corpse of my body: I discover my gut, my thigh, light in my throat. Now I am immortal and made of wrung silk, moving effortlessly as the haunches of horses. Here, in bar-glow, you’re like a ripple of ink that turns the night darker where you are, slicker. I could fit my tongue into your gaze and drink. I could put my finger in your mouth. We circle each other the way flecks of dirt together revolve toward a sink’s metal hole. Your apartment’s round the corner, I know. We only have the rest of our lives.