We toast, leaning on rifles,
Eyes over a wall unknown.
Perked ears and slitted eyes
As slim shadows sidle past.
A grenade or a bottle swaps
Grips and our heads tip back
Caught in laughter or less,
Much less, probably only
Scanning the moon with an
Echoless gaze, a smirk, sex.
A red haze unrolls slowly
Down from the aching stars.
The last silhouetted hooker
Unclasps from the party and
Peeling away stands erect
In the street looking up at us,
Two dumb poets taking potshots
At Bombay doors and Mars.
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