There is a laziness in the light
while evening shadows crouch in fear
behind too much sun, still breathing heavily,
pushing their way, like pain.
Windows marble and cut the
dusk, more raw for her energy.
She pants, lurching over a tired prow,
pinching the hours before a Marco Polo
entrance. An ache of greying green sprawls
out on the dirty floor, like boredom.
What dalliances lay their grievous joie de misère
under tables of discontent? What mis-
matched lyrics to over-sung songs
ever find their way back to tired voices?
They strain through candied throats the coughed up
suggestions of music more real for its yearning, like lust.
Perhaps if Hemingway’s whiskey’d voice, husky
in remonstrance, bellowed his last lines
first of the last first tale?
Told last, would it matter less?
Through Tequilla’d sight, he climbed to heights sufficient to
claim a boastful repast and only good came.
Let’s invoke a simpler meaning to all that hides. Conveying
messages in the unbidden shivers of quilted days, like drunk.
“Steady on,” the curtains answer, chilled in
the gossip of an impatient midnight. “Nothing is
yet. Just memorize what couldn’t be found
among the bones.” There will be
another branch to add to another tree,
that only cares to know
what happens afterward, like now.