When we finish our dance
our bulk fills the ground,
and the fear that we own
is the thought of no- sound,
the no-light in the head,
look, no hands, just the doubt
of sensing anything else.
The forever non-shopping
in tomb-sized down-town.

In the pulse of a second
terrain grins a clay mouth.
Green summer's dentures
blend us -
mincing grinds down.
But no one ponders
just getting out-
who thinks at all once
messed- up in the ground?

So now as we're living
be mindful, lip count
severe shortness of seconds,
narrow edge of keen now.
At tired close of the party
the hand-clapping pounds.
The music mourns, fading,
the music slows down,
and you drift the last dance,
all turned around.
Hushed, twisted forever-
final strangle of sound.

Glenn Bagshaw

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-no-light-in-the-head/