lean boys with bruised skin line the walls—
he turns; last five dollars already to the funhouse manager
(thank you, ma'am)
he reminds himself not to inhale, for fear that he will remember the emptiness of the carpet beneath his feet and in his throat and in his eyes
indulging worst nightmares seemed like a better idea on the fields of the fairground,
where he couldn't escape shifting eyes and spun pink silk and the bloating in the photos that the medical examiner took when his body washed up onshore
he is surrounded when his eyes are closed,
with the water by the beach, inhaling like he'll never breathe again and he breathes you in, you in every state of matter
melted eyes and cheap cologne; and he is drenched in the molasses voice he knew in another life,
before
before
when he was young and glittering
when he was untouchable
immortal
the mirrors reflect luxury in the form of decent highs and indecent clothes and
movement in the night as they never stop;
heaven to africa, and not back again