Poems

Wine on the Curtains

Bedsheets and fading light. 
And wine on the curtains. 
 
What happened? What time is it? 
 
Sickly fumes stain
the mouths of the glasses. 
 
This is a hirsute slippage
of time, a rod
of asceticism 
in a treatise on debauchery. 
 
And wine on the curtains. 
 
And wayward shoes 
at the foot of the bed, 
and the thwarted desire 
for a Franciscan life. 
 
The dry mouth and the bleary eyes
preside over the misery of this
battered body. 
 
And the wine on the curtains. 

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