Funnily enough, this particular poem has also found itself (as prose) in Playing the Dragon King as discussed on Monday.
Guys dance; lights splash
across floating glitter.
We move by the dance floor
as dust on a struck drum
clash by the bar,
crowd barely a man deep—
and stand watching us. Now I know not to
meet their eyes, or to mean more than hello.
Not to earn a kiss upon my knuckles.
I’m here with a particular man.
From the bar, we two hold together
dance, my leg stuck between his. Order
a drink here at the Court;
request a Bushfire,
and pop down its native seed
the shot green—sifting to brown,
drops of Tabasco, failing…
chased on a broken ankle by
the colour of muddled weed.
I’d not normally dance,
more acute in myself—limbs held
a puppet, holding their own, cut-arm.
But tonight we throw each other round
by stretched shirts, out
our first date—collar drawn from my throat.
His top said ‘Fuck This’ in a fabric print
that when I held my hand between them;
paint and lightly-haired skin;
his chest felt as the inside of my mouth,
damp as sweat; the kiss on his throat.
Done, we were drunk as a tuned fork
the early-early morning in synch
with my head, with his brow
the unexpected dancing with the drink
set us aright together.
Outside, we try to find the car
with the coats we’d left there,
not between teeth and throat, no
we growl over our clenching muscle
—two dogs in love.