Got this notion that we drank different before the pictures moved - and different, still, before the pictures.
Something unnatural in the slow hold, the rolling the wrists, the staring off into space -
like we were watching - as though
because all we do is watch
we must be silver to someone, somewhere, yet
so often just looking out the sides of the eye at the room as it moves
and moves around and I get no bolder than that and still not bold enough
ambered up
I don't tell you.
The room moves around and I am looking out the side of my eye
your leaning against the eve, that knee brush -
fool, here, swirling that last warm swallow around
staring into nothing, just in case.
It's the only slow time,
since we do not touch.
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