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.