April is poured
from oak barrels
until I'm dipso.
The last winter
stars pacific,
crawling,
humid jewelry -
scrape velvet
over this cheap bed.

Happy dream
of the late
night metro,
each sleeping face
silver and serene.
The air
conditioning leans
across the aisle
as if to whisper
something.

Endorphins rush
these frays
of nerve
like an infantry.
Sleep must come
on wings
of whiskey
that ****** forward,
swimming
in the dark.