White Russians
Last modified on 2008-09-15 11:18:20 GMT. 0 comments. Top.
I edge my foot out to the night
And, as he falls draping drunk against me,
I remove my fists from pockets
To strike him, to make him quit,
Forming the shape of a star.
Look through this wound.
There’s the lining of his cheek,
Left with tonight’s milk and what else.
The line of cups follow me home.
They make me live in half circles.
Aaron Koppel
