american spirit in your mouth and
english breakfast in your mug
here at the café kitty corner from the
bank—
the echo of your swan song
rebounding from the concrete exoskeleton
of this desiccated city
curled in on itself like
paint chips and
parchment
like bright blue coleoptera in a dusty corner
of the attic.

my words taste like
whiskey left out too long;
they are worse
going back down.