24
Loyalties To Alcohol

Brushing my teeth in June,
the window’s open.
Filling my lungs
with the breaths of noon,
those lingering descendants
from the fog of moon-time,
          dispersed intermittent humidity.
The sweat brings me peace.
Like a flower surrounded
by taller weeds
in a steaming garden.
Like the smiles on the faces
of the inhabitants of New Orleans
          in the Vieux Carré
(such loyalties to alcohol
and good conversation).

Meet me
at 4 o’clock p.m., Jackson Square.

To eat fruit
and kiss
while the sucrose
drips
from
our lips.



  < prev          next >  

  CONTENTS