Gutter Balls: A Poem

The bottle stops the clock.
Silver hair thinks its handle
pours hot tea. And the cold
of the berg dissolves like sugar cubes.
Ghosts are curtains taken down,
spinning clean in ritual.
Blur descends, a soothing
nipple in your mouth.
Deafness slaughters pending deep.
You choose your nectar
and I watch: first the ice
and then the ether,
siamese twins of discontent.

Touch is just a gutter ball
I roll until I break my toe.
Our hugs these nights
like safety pins,
afraid how firm
might pierce the flesh.
Your Dorothy heels
on cobblestones
heading for their yellow home
of artifical sun refrain.
“Can’t we have one sober meal?”
I whisper like a butterfly
landing longing on a rock.

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