The night exhales
loud, ***** coated breath and
on an inhale pulls me like
the tug of a cigarette filter

through flashing neons
pressed against a navy blue
ceiling
          floor
                  wall and
                              button up shirt
of a Welsh boy

named Adam, who offers
a rib disguised as a dance and
out on Wind Street I stumble
the Eve of Swansea

with my American accent
the apple already tucked in my throat