I stained my mouth with the sour polish
burn of bottom shelf whiskey and stared into the
umber of Cohen’s first album while we
talked over the internet.
You said it would be hard moving
to Wisconsin while I searched for
the one where you are
laced in black satin and eating a
My flat cap rested on
rouge skin of your tapering arm.
I swilled the lacquer Nappa wine
while you sung like a hummingbird your
adoration of Friedrich’s brush.
I was younger then, and
wanted to bite your ear wile
whispering matrimony and a
sparsely decorated flat in Greenwich.
You could wear a blue bandanna, wait
tables, compose yourself for off
Broadway plays as I type
my dissertation on forgotten