I watched the morning come,
its satin sheet of light lifting
off of the curve of the world.

Venus shone something crooked,
like the eye of a magpie staring
down at my blond head. I took

one last sip of whiskey, stood
and in the sauntering, in wobbling
home to my own bed, Venus

watched me turn my back,
like a stone rolled in front of a tomb.
I finally stopped chasing love.

I decided I’d rather spend
each night thereafter comfortable
in the bed of my life, no longer able

to sleep while sick of the resurrection
I had at one time simply called six a.m.