This girl I met . . .
I write this in twilight season beyond reasons
of why I've come to this place – on a barstool,
balanced on the mouth of a scotch bottle
and the sadness that was yesterdays.
Here we are all grown up like
we thought maybe we could be
– you seen a happy face lately?
I saw yours not too long past
and now I smile.
Religion is not redemption:
faces and the scents of familiar skins
are redemption; and here I am redeeming myself again
in the memories of you and us and sunny suns and
snowy climbs to youthful fancies; and basement embraces, in circles of smoke,
while Weller sang broken ballads in perfect disharmony.
Can I buy you a drink? Can I share my redemption?
Can I bring you a smile for my resurrection . . .
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