I’m making a list to worry out lines about you
and the old standbys still apply.
Nothing much to assume from that. That I’ll never hear from you?
Sure, so I worry the wood of bars with shadows
and brooding music, soothe muscles of throat, harbor my heart
for a night—all I needed from you—for now—was that:
A wallow in wet napkins and comebacks of heartsick lisps, kicked
to covet words and her as things I will never mouth again.
Nothing much to assume, really,
as the old standbys always apply
and, sure, I count on that.