I’ve been drinking in my sleep again
and in the bathroom and kitchen and
under the stairs
where our eyes didn’t meet but warmed me
like diazepam and summer swimming
down stream; like a love –
a break in the mnemonic chain.
If I dared to ask, I know you’d hex
these tremors. You’d swear against
all intentions of hurt while stroking
that bent-twig in your pocket,
connected to strings, strings, cowardly
things –
the potency of my breath disgusts you.
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