Thursday, February 21, 2008

Cries From the Empty

Every eight o’ clock
the glasses fill the well.

Wide ones with gaping big mouths,
delicate ones laced with sugar crusts,
thick-glassed, obstinate pilsners.

They are filled to deliver
their liquid warmth
for kisses in exchange.

They fetch vodka
a face to play with.

They are emptied, discarded,
returned to me
wearing red lipstick.

I baptize them clean
with three dips.

The big mouths hang
to dry, where they drool
and cry over the counter.

The others, I freeze,
and their tears form
frozen rivers down
their glass sides.

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