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Somehow, we’ve washed up together
lapped by music, licked by liquor
sprawled on the tideline
of one too many
breathless blue-light bars.
All night I’ve swum
against the tug
of your sultry smug flirtation
with coral smiles and canyoned breasts
on waitresses far prettier than I.
Yet now you’re all insistent charm
and wanton hands
demanding their reward
while I’m incurious and tuneless,
toying with desire’s minor chord.
But it’s too late, too wearisome
to go against the vein.
Our ignorance of mutual rules
too pale a reason
not to play the game.
Hours later,
waking hurting,
something in your shifting sleep has changed.
You’re tender, tousled, childlike now -
all scattered limbs and cotton-crumpled skin.
I can’t forgive this blithe embrace
for last night’s absent eyes.
(Worse,
their idle blindness
to the absences
reflected back in mine.)
You’re morning now, clean clothes and coffee
I’m hungover still, stale-tongued and stained.
Too shy to talk to strangers,
too uncertain of our past to start again.
Don’t call me: let me leave you here
sleeping in the flotsam
of our low tide’s high-time change.
While I make one more trustless truce
with one more dark-eyed day,
taking my uneasiness and pocketing the blame.
Buying last night’s one way ticket
for the morning train.
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Beat-Lazarus
