At a diner near Nye,
where no one has heard of cancer,
and everyone sleeps
drinking Templeton Rye,
you are sitting across from me.
Your shadows arrive like vagabonds,
they whistle,
they blow.
Your hands conceal a furnace,
your tongue
tastes of cinnamon snow.
Yet, I have learned
that there’s a price for each invitation
and an avalanche awaiting every sin.
But my pockets are finally empty
and my cuff-links are made of tin.
Are you this tired
of what remains of my mind?
Will there be an ark?
A mountain?
A turquoise ring?
Will this tarred womb
give birth to a wing,
at a diner near Nye?
Copyright 2024
Comments