The Source

I’m not even drunk
but I suspect the clouds

of hoarding liquor
the salt of the sea

on my tongue empty mouth
I can make a river of desire

sluice and flow the water
brims the canyon, cries

a thin-lipped song
you say my name the rain

tin trashcan lids loud
hollow in my head

ours is not the world
but a shard of bone

floats in viscous soup
breaks tooth edges plate

the absent howling
is hardest to take

grain gold field stretches
no breath left for breathing

the transfer of energy
requires energy but none
sparks the sea to flame

my belly burns as I suck
this cloud dry, jaws

taut and tired, i roll
my eyes back better to see

~After reading Nick Flynn’s My Feelings Poems

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