If I could

I’d write you a love letter,
but the barkeep reaches
across the glistening
glass top surface
and sets another ambered
sea on the coaster.

Sweat drips along crystal ridges
of experience, and innocence,
slides along the rim
of a cylinder
of sin —

distracting me from
the long list of things I’ve seen
and read and heard this week
that remind me:

salty, toothy smiles
in early summer afternoon
that turn to

rusty eyes and cheeks
by autumn star and moon.

Winter comes.



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