the poet sips from the glass
a trail of scattered words
ordered
from the taste relished on tongues
feeding the need


eighteen year ***
tender to the senses
pushing against a harsher world
the belly warmed enough
to proffer portrayal


and the tear
falls to the paper
birth to death this saline catharsis
the ocean still flows in our blood
I am alone enough now


the long dead Japanese poet
sits next to me
we toast that we can see
even in this blindness
loving each other…. deeply