it looks like the fog
hovering over the city
won’t clear in time
from vault to vat
he measures the thickness
of the foam
in her magic goblet
as his gold
fillings dance in muted light
shadows of old worlds
cut across a prairie
to reveal how
he might fall
before her
and her damn poetic portal
where the angle of swing
becomes a fatal arc
to their story
the perfect clearance
till humidity
and latent humility
jam up the works
swollen wood becomes Cupid
to their destruction
no more solo flights
circling the globe
no more lone albatross
half brain sleeps
through another glide
into another hot night
someone mentions Lancers
lamps her grandmother made
from brown clay pot wine bottles
suddenly appear
in her half brain
awakening to an old dormitory loft
and a swollen pinky
not cool enough
to be broken
water water
every where above
she misses the salt