Archaic Barstool as Hammock

You cannot imagine how wasted I get

inside this woman’s thirsty, young body.

Let the high, overhanging clouds traffic

their troubles, I’ll abstain—lie low, stay dry—

keep in step with her long-casting shadow.

Coming behind, her prints fill with my own.

Like an open bar in the afternoon

light, she is raised and ready, listens

to everything and swallows slow hours.

(Rare mouths draw bitter truths). Last call I’m spent,

bottle-cap bent, elbows hinged, in her face.

When morning bites back, love spikes to bruising.

Prone to binge, I kneel where we spilled last night,

mulling its lace. Emptied. Downed again, straight.