We walk out the black back door With the broken glass window At the warrant of a smoke I let you lead me into the dark outside Through the yard of twisting, Tall sculptures made of tires, Bottles, barbed wire, and foam
You grab my hand and fit me Beside you in the circle consisting Only of artists, some of whom Stand, some of whom sit on old Couch cushions, or lawn chairs Which have been decaying Underneath the wet, ***** snow
We, the huddled mass of jean Jackets, knitted scarves, and nihilism, Pass around a legal joint and cigarettes Whose smoke rises into the fog Of a mid-November midnight As we freeze, and add laughter To the hum of cars whizzing past On the one-way side of 2nd Street
You and I find our place among The artists, on a chair not once Built with the intention of sustaining The weight of two, but you ask If I’ll sit on your lap anyway And more than willingly, I oblige
We are now a part of this crowd— The Burning Man drop-outs, Too cool for our own selves We shiver and vibrate in time To the neon, changing streetlights And not-too-far-off police sirens And it is here, in your lap, surrounded By the rubble of an artist’s junkyard I look up and mouth /I love you/ And you mouth it silently back