garden party
winter rose bark between lashes of aspen.
glass bottles tilt, spitting up ribbons of wine.
your chest holds my heart like a baby
gripping with each lonely finger.
there is sorrow we have found here, sleeping.
there is grief, stuck and oily, like kitchen grease.
pleased to have gotten the better of ourselves, we walk home alone after midnight.
exist, for awhile, by the sleight of the night’s bright stars, its winds’ soft breath.
death does not scare us, now. not in this lovely weather.
we know better than to let a little cancer ruin our good time.
we know better.
Posted Oct 28, 2022, 5:52 AM UTC
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