This feast night. Candy floss
by the plastic bag and hot dogs. Onions.
A swig of vodka
round the back of the Waltzer.
Scream if you want to go faster.
I touched his hand
on the twister and he touched mine back,
I think. Dangerous lights.
Someone is raging against the autumn dark
with bareknuckles.
A gang of lads
menace the dodgems. They swing
mallets. He fingers
her against the caravan. His breath
is hotter than whiskey
in her breasts and neck.
She notices
his fingernails have not been cut.
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