Brunch Poem Day 9 (mine).

Oh bollocks thin
tight pants & suede
boots! I’m not prepared
for these parts & yet
we will ourselves
into a winter leisure
on the grass, the ground
not quite cold enough
to sprint from but also
not quite dry. It’s 9pm
when I voice my veto
for the glasses—it’s time
to swig and if not now
then when can you drink
straight from the bottle
with a friend who shares
your name? And so with drink
in tow & hats on ear
we fiddle down the His Side
of the street where pavement
squares aren’t as angled
by the roots. Hoo! the night
is colder than a witch’s
chest exposed to currents
and a swift eclipse & even if
the nightsky fails its task
to teach us of our smallness
& the exigence of whittled
mornings shared in bed,
we’ll have numbed the toes
of longing for this place
& named mistakes which now
in low degrees will be briskly fed
to desperate winter birds
like bread.

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