The Taste of Alcohol Through Sweat


In a foreign country all men cluck at long legs;
all legs click cobble-wedged in level coursed
grey texture. All views spired gold,
mica antique bowls, upside down
catch breath in larynx.
My school is burning velvet, on bridges,
on metronomic roses,
on fire.

Vodka steamed moon reflects a soft-pedaled river—
waking in vista of living, scrubbing, rubbernecking
horizon. That statue is holding—
a family.

Every next morning,
I run on crunched catkins, pasted mulberries,
in oaks older than helixing streets,
beside an auburn man
who is tied to my wrist by paper napkin skin,
who sees in my eyes

that rainbow—

is why I work so hard to be color,
Hesitating the igneous indigo breath,
clutching at history’s small
lined
palms.