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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