The weak and the inebriated
Who slip to their deaths in

The canals do not drown. They are
Absorbed as bulbs would be

Sprouting slowly through the wash
Of time. Everyone has fallen in

At least once, petals of skin
Stretching up and over

The city, the building’s faces
Cadaverous with lust for wine

And song. Even the strong trip
And slide, sinking to

The slippery bottom—all the drinking,
Singing, and laughing, pulling

It all down, down, down.

Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2009.  All Rights Reserved.