Hemingway

The man opened his mouth slowly,

and everything his lips had kissed,

the flesh, the hopes, the sweet mellow memories,

came up rancid and sour like bad sleep

as he reached out for a cigarette.

He sucked from the green glassy mouth

of a beer bottle some fluid warmth, comfort.

Pain stretching into his releasing fingers,

he switched the reel-to-reel on,

and the chords closed his eyes, caressing.

Longing for solid sleep to come,

he felt his aching limbs dissolve,

darkness gently waiting as he opened

his mouth again on the icy barrel.

And the reels went on turning,

mechanical and regular.

April 85