"Wine is the mirror of the mind."

The cut glass
fluorescence
of sloe gin and *****,
cuffed to my wrist,
scours the tabletop
with self-cruel smiles.

In the convex glass
I'm wearing
a robe of pills.
In the convex glass
my hand's curve
strangles a joy
back down to size
with forced sleep.

Dizzy on the bird's
chop-wing of couch,
half-tapped glasses
lose the day to the
little white discs
laboring to lift me
roughly into the spaces
between the stars.

The octagonal glass
is so empty.