Beer in hand
girl in bed
it's 11pm
I am chronically literate
turning up the bottle toward heaven
in a silent pulsing toast,
there's no more ground pork on King Street
so security scrutinizes my bookmark, merely
shower talk to serve the soul,
about that bird today
that studied my finger,
I've a collection of short stories
and perfumes to write,
a misspelled obituary
listening
listening
a human box
a sleeping girl
and the window
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