There is something about this city.
About this bar, about bar stools
in cities they go for a drink.
Decidedly the White Russian is
a perfect choice for imperfect nights
in corners of a city’s shadow.
At the edge of the bed they sit
two wrists distance the covers
tightly tucked like tupperwear.
Feet dangle close to the carpet
catching drops of liquid from
a lash evaporating into thick air.
I could not fix you. We took out
the 27-piece home repair tool kit
and held the allen wrench and
twisted the cap screws and
sanded through edges that were
For each I Do I declare
a drink and you a light.
Everywhere else his delicate
hands still have trouble with silk,
scribbling on iPhones or typing in
pencil against keys.
Take the book of poetry
under covers. In between
the stanzas is an acceptance,
an apology, a flashback to
the bedroom where we broke:
covering faces in fabric and
dispersing into a million