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This is me sobering up.
Folder:
Bad poetry your outstretched open palm waits"
from out of a dark envelope put on
the bed, unbent
Like a long, straight tentacle.
The words "why does no one listen to the harpsichord songs any longer" are still freshly hung from my lips, falling slowly like burning feathers
flickering once before the ground with
ten warm, auburn lights. Your cilia shivers in the flame. Hold on.
This lamplight from the corner
is its own bed of tendrils, and licks up the one side of my leg
your eyes smoldering at the other
side. I want one of you two to know about the other. I remember
the small heartbeat of the hand
opening like an old cassette player
with a little effort. Do you want me to come to bed
or lay among the azaleas forgotten in the car?
"where
