—I’VE GOT A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY, BUT I GOT NO PROOF

that poem

that poem

I never finished

is still hanging

on the line

ink faint as

a blemish or token

goodnight kiss

but I remember the

first line and stanza

how the clouds

kept coupling

and uncoupling

like a bouquet of

undecided peonies

their edges dappled

with butterscotch sunlight

their centers blinking

for rescue

even now as I unclip it

the familiar

cadence returns

along with an unused

urgency in each sonic

and before I’ve

even sat down

the middle writes itself

and then the

next part too

my best work yet

something happy

for both of us