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Roll of hundreds ginger vodka drunk on
method between our lips O mercy me

kiss like ruin makes a wasteland’s poor spawn
later weep tar troubled absinthe sassy

hips coaxed out of jeans, nothing here shockproof
save how I mothered you, your thighs all ripped,

tipped skull, craved a window cut in the roof
and poured it in fallow hormonal drip

in your bog veins like a ditch your ankles
around my ears the bar is dark it’s two

in the afternoon. This is what poets
do. No words. Just fucking, it’s what fuels

all the drinking. Trust me. I’m the one who
holds back your hair when you puke up your guts.