Tuesday, September 27, 2011


No, I tell you, it's the wind made me drunk--
lifted, spun me, filled my pores
like wine in so many cups. Like
a path leading out of sight through the sharp
green smell of mountain firs. Like a bowl
of bronze humming as it's stroked
around the rim.

The world's full of drunkenness
and rowdy singers staggering late at night
toward home, or away, it hardly matters
because they relish the stink of alleys
as much as jasmine perfume. To the sacred,
all is sacred.

But I was telling you about the wind
that pelted us with acorns. I was telling you
how moths leave a sweet smell
when they're crushed. I was telling you
that summer refused to yield
even a trace of ash.

I'll let go of your jacket now.
I have to go
drink some more.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

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