fiction and poetry, Poems, Poetry


Oysters devoured raw with lemon,
the sun turning burned orange, its warmth
slips teasing my citrus lips,

The tongue of fire,
tell me once,
Is this all real:
silence amidst unquestioning brightness.

Would I not relapse, into the same room again
with a finished pinot noir on the floor?
the tongue needing a flood,
lungs: a river of smoke
and the heart: a sea of troubles.



5 thoughts on “Relapse

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