It seems that on a night with lips this red and chapped,
the bar is always full to overflowing with them, though
cheap beer works fine in a pinch if you know how to do it
right (they do, they always do, with lime and salt and sugar
and an expensive glass and all the lies and fixins), but aside from
the beverage, isn’t it just something how such heavy folk can
seem so light, so, you know, elsewhere, detached, so scholarly,
like every text message and misplaced thought is a new translation
of Beowulf, like somewhere in the period of time between
the shouting and the hand on the door you find the unabridged
works of Dickinson, and what stings the most is how right
the rustling phantoms must be, how crucial it always seems
in hindsight to cling to the edge of every glass, every word,
every meaning, a world soaked through with puns and promises.
The Spambot replies:
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