The Day After

the smoke of melancholy and emptiness Summer carries into the city is heavy. It floats under doorways and above roofs. Seemingly the vast majority ends up in the lungs of young men and women and people already longing to drink temporary air again. She tried to hold her breath for the first few weeks.

Pale beneath the torpid morning light, 

alone amidst the echoes left behind, 

her hand still sought the dying night,

laid back without a care in the world, her pick of poisons

bounty fit for a nice find, riding into oblivion's tavern with arm outstretched

bare of the burning from when she was once fed up with hunger.

I suppose they think that in our union of flesh: Catholic sacrament

we should share in our imagination, our dreams: a heavenly vision on earth.

But I shall always have elephants dancing, and you shall always have the subtle leaching of the six o'clock news: oil spill.

The angel peeks through the window

Wrong address, mate

She is not your Mary.

I am dreaming often 

of the day after sorrow. 

Will it end like that?

Who mentioned losing something? 

She lost nothing but a good night's sleep 

and found her freedom

overflow like a celebrator cheers between a group of pals, a fleeting moment as it’s being created. Leaving a lingering echo into the next morning, memories that have now lost their physical being. A new silence enters the room, both a blessing and a reminder of time’s limited nature, ever moving.

Come on baby, get out of bed.

The sun’s going down now

horses with their nose bags head into their stables

spilling everywhere, sweet languorous undoing.

Your quick ecstatic kisses, ambrosia of the gods (Why is coming down so lonely?)

Don’t forget to call me.