true solid rain
falls like romance from a bottle
while red ribbons in january
carry the impenetrable sadness
of consumption.

i hear the rain and the women
working the pub downstairs
and oh god wish
i could watch their feelings
manifested as fine motor skills,
fingers, twitching eyes,
striated arcs starting 
to show above their cheeks.
older women shop up here
stroll through aisles 
like galleries
handling produce
like works of survivalist art.

my wine thin blood craves milk.
count to ten, my love
it's a scary world.


-michael

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