She sips cold coffee
late on a Sunday
waiting for the week to
overtake her, ennui
and uncombed hair
pushed back from her face
by images burned like whiskey
into the clenched confines of her gut:
housekeys abandoned to
dewed grass one summer’s
violet ending; dying flowers
of a spring flung out wide
over barren shoulders;
the roughened heels
of her soul’s master
pacing always
three steps ahead.
Brushing back strands
and consciousness
an unmoved midnight
passes hollowly
and she swallows,
searching, bitter
all the way down.