Tell me, tranquil objects surrounding
this pair as they sleep: you sheets, clock,
clothes lying in heaps on the unswept floor—
for example his shirt and her crumpled
stockings, co-mingling—surely it can’t
yet be brisk, bittersweet day(?) Aren’t light
and parting still far off, hiding behind
that crazy-assed purple horizon who
grumbles under his breath? Let’s hope
that burgeoning, unearthly glow
is the blinking neon of a distant speakeasy,
wherein those destined to save themselves
by timely flight abroad meet to bid
each other adieu on the coast of a beloved
but deeply insecure homeland. The ashtrays
in this bar are always full. Our glasses are nearly
dry. A final fiery sip OK. Time to go. Dawn’s
the color of honey daubed on skin to promote
wound healing, or drizzled across the belly
in foreplay. Home is where you are fed
and adored. Hand me my crutches, dear.
We may yet escape the impending. I change
the bedding around here, so I know a thing
or two about who’s in league with who,
and whose frail hopes are pinned upon whom.
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