I decided on the most
somber landmark
to find my way back.
The grey that stirs above us.
The slate that doesn't come clean.

Aiming to swindle, pick pockets,
drench us with small change on our pale cheeks.

Obvious to some,
I tend to forget
this is home.

Pills and needles, balancing
our barstools. This time,
the clouds that linger
aren't from a fire we built
the night before.

They are not delusions,
from no longer believing in sleep.
They spill over everything.
Everywhere I live.
When I hear the drinks mixing,
cuddled up inside of me,
I know I'm coming back to this, eventually.

I mean this more every time,
your body is warm.

The bed is low to the ground,
a reach of the arm.
No rug and no mirror,
nowhere to trip.
Just an extra pair of shoes,
raincoat and a belt from your place in the
Pacific Northwest.

And you, in a nutshell,
I somehow stretch out until sunrise.
Grand theft auto, a year in Alaska,
I didn't realize we walked up
six flights of stairs.

Until morning, descending,
the formal exit.
A forming habit.

05/05/2005

Posted on 05/06/2005
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