He curses the girl who called the cops, how she combed her hair and spoke of unhappiness. She's looking at him now. She looks down as if it's her first coffee of the morning. He's thinking they could've been watermelon and tequila. Cigarette and gun smoke soak the road. A bird in the sky inhales his eyes. He is wearing silk socks, the same ones he had on when they saw Westbound, his tongue rolling in her mouth like a B picture. He's been keeping his breath in. He takes it out. It's about time he had a good day.In the Woods — A Shot — Fraught with Barking Dogssonnenizio on a line from Jean Cassou
Then I lost you, like so many other things, in the drift. Wine soaks the body of Christ into sopor. In the half-light, I examine myself before the mirror. The only true sociopath is a corpse, you said. I shouldn't drink so much, but it's not my fault. What's a soul for if not solitude? You had an unstrung button on your shirt that day. The soap dish sewed itself into a coffin of dust. You drew my attention to the solar plexus: pain like dying alone or a violin solo. I press both hands there. Outside, a sober bicycle sows its shadow into the weeds. Beyond it, the hole you left, like a soldier, on the ground.A Portrait of God as Table Wine
It took the Cabernet Franc two nights to re-create the world. Adam and Eve figure as flutter: a curtain, potato skins, sepia photographs curling to black in the fireplace. Departure. The priest drowns his bread in wine. He is young. He is dedicating his life to a blank page. He is writing: The doctor next door has shot himself. It's not the first time he vomits blood and examines it. The glass slips from his hand. Ink scrapes the floor. The bottle of Cabernet Franc casts a church-tower shadow across the table. He can almost hear it ring. He can almost feel the children spit his face out.