Half hour to midnight, across the bridge,
echoing voices, blending pulpy and sweet
they swell and clear as I approach
the party in the street.
Friends left for the casino
I’m alone with nothing but my feet,
but from the top now I hear drumming
at the party in the street.
The crowd, in feathers, now rippling, now shaking,
in reds and yellows and oranges and purples and greens
I feel the air thrumming in a world heartbeat.
As I approach, I am swallowed
by the party in the street.
For a blissful hour we’re no one,
dancing wildly and replete
in sensations of skin and sweat and breath,
pressing tighter at the wake of a year’s death,
and the nights birth of this shibboleth.
We are the party in the street.
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