Drunk talk is a love song for wobbling grackles
cawing a rhyme scheme of past lovers’ names.
Don’t seek drunk kisses, they find you
in a high-rise where vinyl afterthoughts pile.
In her atmosphere, all I craved was her body of work
after bars and a stroll as uncomplicated as her bookshelf.
Our town’s got lies to share, shaven legs to slide,
but all I cared for were her barren margins.
Too many bookmarks, too shallow into pages.
Much unread – unloved.
“The books are all mine, in me.”
Same as drinks on lips used to touch others’ glasses.
Permanent sunset mounted her mattress.
She’ll photograph more sun, she promised.
I thought: Don’t. Photograph the dead.
Drink, swallow them in their moment.