8.19.17

All these nights the same:

we drink and utter words

until one word from one

beleaguered fool slurs,

twists, stumbles out his mouth.

It is then that it begins.

We carry on as if nothing

has happened.

But each of us knows

the night

has been deflowered,

that we are crossing over,

that the fire alone no longer

warms us. The reaction

is chemical and it is inside.

And it’s too late.

.

In the morning we will say,

Never again. But suns tend

to disappear, and when they

fall a desire rises, waiting

to be embraced at the evening’s

first slurred word.

---

Written at 11:46 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.