I watch the thin
blue veins of smoke
rise through 4pm.
My glass, which now
contains the sum
total of who
I am, turns tiny
ribbons of sun
to dull amber.
A disembodied
juke-box flutes the
syllables of
your name across
an empty bar.
Alison, I know
this world is
killing you.
Your face is full
of years, as the
rosebud of your
lips slashes, true
as Judas` kiss
in Gethsemane.
