lips once mine
your tender eyes shine
in my dreams
I hold in my arms memories, the thrill of your charms
don't look at the clock
nor puzzle at the journey
it is just the meticulous intimacy of chaos
explore scents of warm liquids they turn skies a deeper blue
hours weave a wave across oceans, and leave like La Buveuse
I start writing diaries and letters in volumes
taste the tenderness of words
drafts of fiction without rhyme, a heart is a heart you see
nevertheless, more tears along time in the margins with images of prepositions
"after," "against," "behind," "below,"
"beneath," "but," "despite," "down," "off," "out," "outside,"
"over," "past," "since," "through," "throughout,"
"under," "underneath," "until," and "without."
beautiful even so, while the poet drinks a shot of Irish whiskey, such a beverage
drops dribble on, sipping at sleep
you state the obvious; he has papers for his skin and liquor for his blood
his blood is his ink
he is without dialogue to rehearse
from the front to reverse
until all his words disperse