This eye encased
in brick—not a bearing
wall but for show. This eye
above 

the bar before me
is not staring down but straight
ahead till remodeling
becomes 

a plan. And I wait around
another corner. Some string
quartet plays in another room. Not
what I’m waiting for.
A march 

of Absolut bottles—Apeach, Kurant,
Mandrin, Mango, Pears, Peppar, Raspberri,
Ruby Red. Someone has taken
the time to line them up in alphabetical
order. Not 

what I’m waiting for. I would never wait
for the bottle—the bottle would never wait 

for me. That one’s over. This one
is an outpouring
of dark song—always worth it.
Always an incurable
gaze, mine.