A thin, red trail
slaps the pavement,
becomes so swollen,
strands trip around
the neck and cut
deep where there,
in the slick trickles
pulled to small floods,
sinking out, a tip
of the tongue cry
never quite confirmed,
stays strangled. Drips
and ebbs with bottle
in hand, a scarf
in the other. Like ribbon
it weaves into spaces,
drenches the ground
until everything is art.