“The air is disco when beautiful girls ask after my poetry…”

The air is disco when beautiful girls ask after my poetry.

I’ll drink to that. I’ll drink to whatever.

To our

lost hours of bedding. To search lights swaying back and

forth in the furthest corner of sky. To falling down.

To

sleeping in a shadow. To stars she pushes into arms.

Into guts, eyes and heart, where the corners get frayed.

I am

just the poet to waste verses on you; so

scrub this savage hurt—shackle me to my muse.

 

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