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Drunk, Angry Swans
What was wrong in wanting the
grappling of fingers? Their
reach, your grasp in unity
and lingering of skin on skin.
Guilt may too accompany he,
whose desperation falters him
into sullen apathy that's
poison towards the world around:
bonded peers and cohorts, sorted
by their tendency to stand at side,
at end of tirade brought by drinking, or
when you're sleeping off the smoke.
Arise, baroque and hard of hearing;
hope to find a presence nearing or
settled in the sheets beside you,
waiting on you to awake them.
