Around the headland, off into the night,
are more of them,
the words we send out to be mangled and muffled,
sheltering from the sea’s urged-on breeze
in hollows cut into stone.
Strung lights dance along the pier
like we didn’t dance.
The limping woman dances to her taxi,
her husband whirls a crutch high,
they hobble home together.
And the clinking ice
mingles with harsh whisky,
disappearing and disappearing.
That beast around the bay doesn’t know its name,
sleeps while the world tramples over it,
dances over it, mopes over it.