Red wine music, poems, and these nights at the table.

to know that nothing

will break us

early

except mistake

or faith in fate

or something outside

of our control

is good enough

when the

head is clear

and the moon rolls blue

down the arms

and the fire in our

bellies

fans up and out

to beat the

ugliness

while Coltrane

rips the notes from

his heart

and throws them at yours

while the heat pipes up

from the vents

and the dogs

dream on the couch

while you know the night

moves through you

while the words bite

into the page

while the bums

fuck in the alleys

and the women bait

the tables

alight by wax or neon

while the streets are cold

and stink of exhaust

of smoke

of broken-tooth breath

and slimy whispers

we stay

where we are

warm with

red wine music,

poems,

and these nights at the table

the guts in the

wood of the room

even the lamps and

light from the kitchen

hold a dignity

the streets can’t

touch

the window and moon and

sound of the keys

our burning punk compulsion

against the

ordinary things

on the other side of

the door

on nights like this

when we

get back to

what we’ve

learned from

our dead.