The house was
not ours but
we leaned on it
drinking. The weather
had cooled. People
wore costumes and
night it rang bathing
in terrible
haze. Across
the yard moved
friends who'd lost
touch. Dressed up
like women, like
children in
pigtails, they left us
to standing
and swallowing
low. Later
that night, a picture
was taken, and even
later still your
mask had come
down. The black
fur of the panda made
smaller your
nose. The whites
of your eyes
caught light
like a sneaker, and you,
in your growl,
showed powerful
breath. There were more
mishaps but
what I remember
is leaving. I shouldn't
have driven. The roads
they were slick and
cops were out
looking. When we got
to your house, I watched
you inside, turned
off my engine
and fell
in a sleep. I dreamt
of us men
as text books
would see us. A country
whole dancing
as we pushed from the shore.
