Monday 12/11/2006 01:04:00 AM

August was ugly. September was beautfiul. We were holding the petals up to the stem. Trying to assign life to a dead bouquet. There were rabbit's feet telling stories on the corner. As the stretlights smuggled in shreds of darkness. So absolute.

He was facing the wall. Trying to find a crack. But I was already smitten with the door. Cold appeals to the justice love seldom flaunts.

In a calm obituary we wrote. Like it had happened to someone else. In the newsprint that stained our fingers we reveled. Like so many swings that continue to echo. Like the so many people who were almost that close.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.