Winter      Aaron Anstett      At closing time in Davenport, two women kissed fiercely,      as if making some refusal in the terrifying light      suddenly cast across all our faces      and tabletops and plastic cups      of various quantities and conditions of liquid      the law allowed us little time to finish drinking.      I didn't have to go home, but I couldn't stay there.      Bars were still serving across the river.      I read all the notices against fighting and bad checks      and an article about the regular found beaten to death      taped to a mirror bearing the bar's name and logo.      Bottles doubled there in image but not content,      then the women, pressed against each other's jackets.      Each had her eyes closed. I cannot know      what it was for them their mouths meant.      One held the other's head as if to steady it.

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