They stare across disco squares,
mirrorballs churning in their pupils,
bunched just shy of the sweeping searchlights,
pallid, fungal.
They huddle in blankets, barefoot and lank-haired.
They do not hear the music.
Occasionally, one turns, as if tapped on the shoulder,
but there is nobody there,
except a DJ under glass,
one palm pressed to his ear,
as if staunching his jugular.
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