Monday 12/31/2018 11:30:00 PM

the hour pulls on the small stitches that the hold the edge. time turns sour. memory tries to sweeten it. skin like honey. touch like vinegar. we fumble with the balance.

the winter whispers. the cold coos.

tomorrow auctions our flesh as yesterday gnaws on our bones.

we throw our poison into the boxes. and ponder what might be dead. we tally the intersections. and try to imagine where we're going.

we count the days. the years. attempting to mend. it's the needle that facilitates. but it's the thread that resolves the holes.

the miles melting under our gait. more arithmetic than epiphany. more dandruff than poetry. the biology betrays. the physiology confounds.

still our hearts remain tissue paper. even as our skin turns to stone.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.