Two blitz kids tumble out the photobooth,
a lipstick mess of highball spill and hands
all over each other. As their teeth clack,
their cheeks flare with Day-Glo flush, and they don’t
spend much time surfacing for clean air.
Absolute beginners: rolling together
unrehearsed, so new to one another.
They look like they’ve squirted neon into
one another’s eyes with lunatic glee.
When one peeks out at their partner mid-kiss,
it seems like a night of stars might just
spill down one face and onto the other.
They’re both swallowed in old creases of leather
moto jackets, stolen from their fathers.
They entangle under dark red barlight.
It’s really something. They have disarmed me.
Still, they gotta get tossed into the street;
their faces getting too close to places
they don’t belong in this nighttime sector.
Off you pop, hit the bricks, go with God,
pitched by the scruff onto midnight’s palm.
Their system of romance coagulates.
A gloved hand lands in the small of a back
while other fingers interweave like power
lines running through a transformer; their knees
wobble the way fresh ponies walk. They taste
tongues while streetlights navigate the corners
of their fusing faces. Look at them go!
The late-night crowd dissociates into
lager puddles. One drunk blows a wish to
the new lovers by queueing something honeyed
for them on the jukebox. May all kids punch
some holes in their shared darkness. I pray it, too.