We romped until the pans
were drunkenly strewn about.
Such waltzing was not easy;
wine makes a footpath flimsy.
You beat time on my head;
a cackle, then “click, click, TING!”
I hung on for dear death
to a feeling that’s not feeling.
Oh, let me rise, and fathom when
it’s high time to flee from my empty glass.
Waltz me off to bed;
I’ll sleep off life until tomorrow.
Oh, let me rise,
or at least float into oblivion,
each glass defeating dolor.
The coil of the hot plate glowing
warms my skin but not my roots.
I just love poetry
but only in this self-constructed hell.
Meanwhile, in heaven,
I imagined death dancing back to life;
such waltzing was not easy.
Seeing through to possible worlds,
a glass-bottom boat;
it’s the smell of second chances,
autumn leaves burning the past.