Thursday, March 14, 2019

sleepover

Of course I didn't tell him about my favorite painting.

Sick on cigarettes,
vomit,
and poison whiskey punch,

we three sleep dry-mouthed
in your mother's bed.

I pull myself to your sink in the morning and brush my teeth.
Foretaste of foreplay.

We sit on your couch
eating clementines:
fruit of a Domenic paradise.

Our hungover prophet
of anxiety relates his Daniel-dream:
the Icon of the Agony
commanded him to be kinder to you.

But here we are,
one year later:
New York,
Miami,
Minnesota.

No one one wit nicer.

So, no, of course I didn't tell him about my favorite painting.

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