bitterer

a thread of vinegar
drawn along my throat.

defeats.
i am braids of thoughts:
after all the wine,
i love to want the things that recede.
i hear mother's voice in mine
and i retreat.
the hot gray sky today
meets the open air
and it's welcome cold
after the heat beneath the street.
the city in january
-look both ways-
the lining of my year-old coat
has grown thin, and frays.

I am
not
T.S. Eliot
(toilets)

the people in the market at Union Square
the joy of my books;
paper slices of garlic;
his beautiful face;
the pleasures of logic;
this is my joy to the world.

defeats.