Procrastinate, and a fuguewill decay into a carrion.
There is the cigarette ash,and the intake of breath,ingrained and harsh,a habit
Refresh my glass?Certainly, I can still feel
The stars have faded, somewherebeyond perception:into the blue,the blue
A perfect world sways, urbanely,pours disempowerment, as from a decanter,sparkling, as poisons must,in…
Reciting poemsabout a life that feels unadorned,a resilient beast — a dumbwaiter of sorts
Love is that eventual thingthat’s oft defined by numbers —
Light, like the darkness can hurtunbearably, like strangers.
Oh, she has a lovely face,and a wisp of a lilt,when she feels like conversingon our sometimes Sunday mornings.