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
Rough Drafts Only 