I woke on a morning of sapphire, junked up
in my dusk-smelling bedclothes, a fire in my head
like a truck stop rodeo. It was another one-night motel.
I was still wearing jeans. Empty bottles of bourbon
collected glitter near the curtain’s chink.
I could hear motorway traffic, but not too much,
more switched down low, close to mute.
The television flickered - a big wave coming,
drowning the green coast of Africa.
I lay in a shape as though I’d been searching
for a crawl space beneath the covers,
or had tangled my legs round the torso
of an imaginary lover. My left hand was
still curled, sensitive to a glass that
no longer existed. I tasted whiskey
on my breath, in the pores of my skin.
I was what was left after fire and smoke,
hunger and passion. I was able to move my tongue,
inquisitive, so that it touched my palate
like the beginning of a curse. I was able
to look at dark things, the heavy,
seventies furniture alive with glints,
and I was content, like someone shipwrecked,
to remain on my island, undiscovered,
for as long as the morning took.
