Alexander Long – alexbasspoem@gmail.com – 1 484 467 2445
out of wine—
the moon looks lost . . .
familiar
tossing bottles
in an empty parking lot—
call me maestro
my alcoholic ears—
summer thunderstorm
is bottles breaking
one sound—
wind through tall grasses
and waves
two sounds—
a heron gliding
over water
one sound—
geese and late Coltrane
through cheap speakers
January dusk
and the stars are still
far away
a certain sort of faith
is required—
the moon
on a Tuesday is still
the moon
after a blizzard
our valley
looks tucked in
the moon turning
snow blue—
my last drunk—
sand
in a flood
my last drunk—
a fifth of Grey Goose
and Apocalypse Now!
my first drunk—
seated
at The Father’s right hand
hangover—
longhaired cat
in the rain
a burning cigarette
hangs off the curb
on 34th Street
how did it end—
on the sidewalk crushed plastic bottles
of Stolichnaya
memory of a hangover—
wind-snapped white pine
through the roof
no hangovers
for five years—
waves smoothing themselves
midnight
and the sun
is still somewhere