from dwindling candles.
there's a sign on the sidewalk saying Last Call
as the wind picks up, rushing us back to our homes
to say goodnight in that starry night. i pour myself another glass of wine
and point it out to the man, telling him that if all were all okay
this would be milk from my mother's breasts;
this would be milk from her breasts if i could at all
decimate the walls and fences covered with grape vines.