In the puddle of air that surrounds him
the morning is stale, sweet ferment of tequila.
He knows there are no more words for this.
No more scale for the headache,
throb and desire in the living current.
He has one last number to call;
Monday, sober and raining he'll dial
the HMO's dependency center
seven digits of despair under his fingers.
The day opens because he's found
the air stirring in his lungs, something
blowing in him he has not known before.
A sudden shift as blinding as yellowed
sun he will find filling empty cups,
the windows, his hands after he burns
his own life like a mound of fall leaves.

Volume 1, Issue 1, 2006