My Angel is drunk
         so I take my place;
         grasp the glass, glare straight
         past the marks and sharks
         into the black space
         beyond this blue bar.

         It's church, not just bar,
         and Jesus' blood drunk
         to flush the brain space
         in this, the Skull's Place,
         where glide Roman sharks,
         their bone lances straight.

         More blood of Christ, straight,
         might redeem this bar.
         Angel's eyed by sharks,
         but she's not so drunk
         to confuse this place
         with that cool black space -

         space to forget, space
         to breathe and dive straight
         away from this place.
         But someone will bar
         the way: Dad, piss-drunk,
         wine a froth of sharks.

         I notice the sharks
         are circling my space -
         figure that I'm drunk
         and easy, so straight
         for the neck.  Blue bar
         goes crimson.  In place

         of wine, rain.  In place
         of stools, woods.  No sharks,
         but owls; no blue bar,
         but the cool black space
         soaks my clothing straight
         through.  The clouds are drunk.

         Angel's drunk.  The bar
         dims.  Sharks leap.  Cool space
         sits straight in my place.

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