dropped into my life

with whiskey-blood and a mouth full of smoke.

my feet forgot the pull of gravity

for months afterward.

I should have paid more attention to what the storm was singing.

the happiest I have ever been

is struggling not to fall asleep on strange living room floors,

on make-shift beds,

beside lights strung in bottles-

losing track
of which of these limbs belong to me.

-For N who complains that I only write depressing things about him.
(And spectacularly misses the point. And is too much of an editor to love free-verse or cummings.
And is willing to admit his mistakes, and is the best friend I could have asked for.)