"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.
Nov 21, 2019
Nov 21, 2019 at 4:47 PM UTC
"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.
