Drunk Behind the Moon

Fri 01/06/06 at 10:45 pm

Poetry ranks closest to Art.
Still, it follows.
Sometimes, though, words and syntax trigger the quickening.

“Drunk behind the moon.”
And we are there.
In the dark.
In the cold.

And then,
Old Mr. Flood himself
Singing to himself
In dissociated harmony.

A dry martini.
Stolichnaya.
Up.
With an olive.

Now that’s a metafer.

Revised January 6, 2006
Copyright © by cko

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