As the beer somehow kept spilling
over the edge of the ping-pong table—
as its cascading luxury of foam
called to mind, for some reason, ruins
of imaginary Babylonian gardens
and the girls began to unravel with the night,
besotted with spume, gradually untwining
their spooled effervescence—
as our volume rose, and our thoughts clacked
against our teeth, the laughter silly—
as we unhooked ourselves for a time
from the existences we ourselves had stressed,
kneading them—and I smelled euphoria—
I, half-drunk off something
other than beer, turned to my friend and let out:
but what do you say to the doomed?
Teeth clacking.
His eyes heavy at me for having wrenched
at this. His eyes fading behind a film of alcohol.
His eyes silent.
Then his cup to the air, firm, salute-poised.
Then his cup to his mouth, quick chug
amid clamor of enclosed mirth—small,
clanging against walls, girls’ skirts—
as if you could only salute, then wash down
the aftertaste
with imaginary Babylonian gardens.