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I want to fall asleep in a garden of beer
beneath the sky’s gold lager and foamy cloud tympanum,
wrapped up in the solids of arms too loose to hold,
insensate and scratching at tipped surfaces,
completely at ease and not bored at all,
halfway to being halfway soused.
A look not around.
“Lie cheaply, to me.
Like me back,” I’ll say
to nobody’s last night.
I want to guess less with swilled courage that spells me dizzy
and too inept with staggered sense
again.
I want to shutdown my eyes and just remember and remember
under glissandos of desertion in the rain-gutter shade,
shoe-less feet caressing pebble shards in the hard earth,
digesting the best turkey chili in the area code;
and then pop open my eyes to couples saying goodbye,
caught in a hug’s long last lasso,
whispering coos like dying people might,
as if strung together with laced finger traps,
waltzing away and swooning back home,
over and over to a swamp cooler’s rhythm.
I want to be lost in countless swallows,
arrange ways to get gone for a few beers’ stay,
wait for my clothes to come back into style,
be a better guy than I’ve been being lately,
maybe
catch a moth in my hands,
and then
let it go.

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