by underswansea


It’s a scene. The monkey is crawling over drunkards. The snake has escaped from the handlers. They had it figured. Now the game has changed. She wants to take my pants off. I say I haven’t done it for a while. She says, trust me, but I hardly know her. It’s not that. Or the sky darkening. Why should that stop me. I haven’t been sure for a decade, going on now. She has me. The sky has split open. I’m still looking up. I see stars I recognize. It feels different. Even she can’t help me. It’s the mountains where I know I’m alive. Her hands are under her hips. The creeks are flowing down, through spruce, cedar, over ancient rocks, carved smooth, disturbed and angry, the clouds watch, but have little sway. It’s been a long haul, and I need a drink.