I heave up another lungful
of gulped down stars
and margarita moon

(behind: a guitar plinks and ripples and twangs,
a weighty glass knocks its contents over wood)

and I blow hard
again, into the heart
of the fire sending ash
eddying nightward
like gravity gone
Times Square snow

it lands on my arms, hands, fingers, my face – it’s as cool
as my mother’s knuckles circa ‘96
against my sickly fired forehead, and what a joy
it was to feel
the school day slip away
without you; you content
under covers
sipping saintly soup
and listening
to the dirty drumming rain.