The air is disco when beautiful girls ask after my poetry.
I’ll drink to that. I’ll drink to whatever.
lost hours of bedding. To search lights swaying back and
forth in the furthest corner of sky. To falling down.
sleeping in a shadow. To stars she pushes into arms.
Into guts, eyes and heart, where the corners get frayed.
just the poet to waste verses on you; so
scrub this savage hurt—shackle me to my muse.