Wish I knew what
what warm hip-flasked whiskey feels
white cold as it infiltrates ready
mouth tightens, paths narrow
through first tension, eases, whispers
heat ears, neck, toe-ball-toe of feet.
Quiet. It must quiet, to prevent
uneasy mumbles—thought’s messy
messy action falls nearby blame,
less, blushing missed falsehoods,
lies unearthed leaching perfect laughs into
basin of synapses.
Is incentive in fear;
is reaction in dread, looking through
clouded, teary glass; is incentive, is reaction
in marbled replies and interruptions,
cupped in moist palms that sway
most priests to offer dry escape,
a lax prayer and taxed conscience—
someone, dearest, lies in false hope, certain un-
lying in hedgerows, already seen, waits.