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
our lips.

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