Head swimming with wine,
sleepy and free, I always return to you
in my mind
where you remain like smoke or a scent
of soil, of spice, of the time
on that pretty hill last spring. it was nice.

Sometimes I drink, yes by now
I’ve been drunk many times
yet I find I never fail to think
of you and the seasons we saw and survived
and that evening outside, our letters goodbye,
and the summer that followed.

That autumn I died.
figuratively, of course, I’m still here
and alive. and I’m drunk. and I’m writing a poem.

You hate poems—all the better.
in any case I’d never let you read
what I write.
and in any case, time
can dull any pain.
it takes time to heal, to write poems, to drink wine.

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