A wash-out—it's keeping cackling
inside the bright box as lingering
sways out front in chatters. Shivering
at the thought of return, betting
on lingering a little longer in not
in there. It goes on—card tables heave
then crack, manhole covers dance on plumes,
rickety U-Boats underneath and their crews
running to each end depending
on the sub-plume's stream. Lights
flicker, trees shift heft; stop,
start until still more sweaty screaming starts
except this time it's different. It's as if
they really are trapped in there; it's as if
we're trapped out there. Sometimes 
we look at one another, we drip; we
drip like wall-rivets, like condensation
on the shabby pane marking in from out,
that slick thing we need so much.