1237

Italian cinema
brown eyes
my tongue is a cityscape
and you rambled across it
on brick plains
aching towers and where to go

wine and spirits
weed and the nightly pill
I dance down I can’t explain
I haven’t found anything
but I keep spinning until I do
writing these sideways things
keeping up your portrait
of me in my study
the man who writes for a woman
who isn’t around anymore

the psychiatrist I paid
keeps throwing things down
splitting hundreds at a time
waking me and cursing me
enough for me to stumble
just a little