In the Garret
Beneath the burning taper of her heart, She clutches one soaked, wrinkled page; she's pressed Her lips to the ink, tasted every part, Swallowed her kindled joy that it might last.
This tattered meal came late tonight; was passed From courier, to maid, to her, and lit Her golden lamp: her lover's love unmasked.
This is her feast; she warms to read in it.
The Basement of Empty Bottles
Alchemists sought to make gold in great lots, then; Belated, he makes an empty place--Pressed salvers Melted down, gone. Rich flavors now forgotten, Words mispronounced, their meanings have forever Been drained to dry arcana, milkless utters.
Beneath my nails: scratch-ticket rubbings. Names Of old wines lost before first tasting. What other Losses may we describe, but never name?
Against the broken stones of the town walls, He shelters from the rain, his trousers damp.
He'd walked since Margot threw him out, but squalls Of storm rose, he sat on a mossy stump To rest amid the lashing wet. The drops On stone: coin clanks in Margot's...