the inability of the cold ice touching
--written in an airport somewhere in middle america/early evening/highly intoxicated/unedited

there’s just enough time to get
drunk on vodka
in the airport lounge
before take off
and i’d like to be able to tell you
about how i accepted a drink
from a strange woman
and even afterward
flirted with her
in my common unabashed shameless style
until he showed up
already drunk and full of
vigorous contempt
all car keys and the salty residue of tears
i don’t want you to go
he said as we embraced as mostly
drunk people do in front of the
terminal building
but he isn’t the one i want to hear
say so and i don’t feel sad
as i leave him and pass through
security
although i cherish the way this
liquor smoothes out the movements
how it licks this particular
memory into a place that feels
like cool satiation
but this longing remains –
for the way your lips could
replace any false sense of
elevation brought on by wild flower bouquets
and other incandescent means
i want to go home i say to the rain slashing against the tinted windows
as i walk on and sit at the gate waiting to leave
this for that but not for the
place i actually want to be –
which is anywhere that might feel like it does to see your eyes
like a soul’s liquid miracle