It's late.

Swirling lights, tattoos and ruddy skin,

laughs and pictures

leaning crazily.

They could really do

with a room, roped off

on which to pontificate

gesticulate and share a million

and three secrets and stories

bled from the bowl that starts...

...and ends with your city face,

your birch frame and sweet breath,

patterned with detritus of dried

merlot, rioja,

like blood from that fountain,

a cowardly, squabbling council

let run dry.