patterns

You only speak in the slow prose of indefinite light,

winding between chair legs and thievery to complete

thoughts. Whatever you whisper I can only believe the

knives clenched in my teeth. There is a memory of retreat

even after my surrender. An instinct for the small

maneuvers of narcotics.

The sky is a white house fostering the devil's identity of

continuous blankness; wide open the windows are draped

with absences of color. It is the longest walk across the

street to borrow anything. Night will come without stars,

a slate for chlorine dreams, whitewashed and wrung out.

The pattern recognition of thumbprints parading around

another glass. The resinous emptiness sliding down. I

often remember my innocence, or at least I always tell the

same lie. Curious how this happens. I slide my fingers

through, smudging swirls into streaks. The liquor counts

coup on my moral lassitude

.