long night

come, come what may; the night
is lean and our fingers are fat, candle
clay stubs wrapped round
wine bottle necks,
swapping lipstick with that cold wine
cold sweat -
        tang of metal clanging round our
        round mouths,
cistern of words that turn to lime
as soon as they are bleached out

        come, come what will,
we say,
        tumble up the yard
        and into the morning
a barbeque growls into life


in the shadows, little ghouls
        with the plum-meat of their eyes drawn down
        and voices like wet cement being scritched,
        scratch their feet