These decadent days run a thick river
through the westside of this town.
We account bottlecaps and soda taps,
to make a ledger of how much we drink
of our own blood, and to send to
the loving aristocrat upstream.
I send him my message, cased in a
black-tinted bottle, stoppered with deflated
balloons, my signature sidenote:
“Shatter-heart, all in this river,
I am sorry for when it stabs at your charming skin
I regret this fall in with you
and we never bloomed more fair
it’s unjust for you to bear
The weight of all my stars and moons
I never dammed this river to spite you.”
Downwind, his only response:
“Every time you spit into this river,
it comes back to you as rain.”
