More or Less Decanting

Maybe I’ll always be more
slang, less spine.

More laughter workout through the tears, less wind sprint repetition.

More skipping stones
on the freshly iced-out lake

in the wee hours,
when no one’s looking.

Or, maybe, one last time
with Virginia. Or, for the first time,

I will awaken her from a soggy slumber
to spend a rainy (sometimes thunderous)

Saturday afternoon together.
We will walk more lighthouse

and isthmus, talk less
language and island.

Is she cringing?
It will be too dark to tell.

Or, more do over, less
permanent ink staining the beach.

More midnight damage done,
less dramatic daylight ruse.

More or less chipping another plate
in the sink to interrupt the time

spent fearing the bend
in the nearest tree trunk.

Less rocking the head rhyme,
more room to tell it slant.

A change so much
more twisted than bartered.

More sing the city stoop,
less swallow the hollow skyway whole.

More rough-hewn fakebook fringe
to dangle over the edge,

less polished marble
floor to slip on.

More liminal guitar picking,
less drive-time buzz.

More not so subliminal messages
from one DJ to another,

transferred via soulful trashing
of a playlist: the ultimate

no apologies outro.
Listeners no less.

And maybe I loved your sister more.

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