by Will Monigold
Now the moon is oil. I've turned
the last bottle up and muddied my heart.
My solemn vows live among brute facts.
The room is hand woven like a tight ball of broom
and dwarfs engulf me with elixirs
deliberate as gunpowder. From the end of my flute
come the next leafy cork and I sit
like driftwood, expecting a kick
from blunt boots. Any other day would be
compliance, but the worm is frantic for my eye
the solitude like acid in a grape.
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