I got behind
and catching up
is something like
grape stomping
in a swamp
getting so stuck in the
sweet muck
and no one sees it
so does it really happen
the wineclaydirt slurry
bogged. left. carnival of mud.

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Friday nights

That was my stool I would sit on
once a week next to my sister
and we’d talk and talk over dreams
and wishes, like kids
at an overnight

As the night wore down
and the head grew more inebriated
we confessed all our sins
baptizing one another in club soda
with a twist

Waking up next to each other
with all our confessions
cut into paragraphs
spending our Mondays
pasting them back together

take the toast corners of life
and wipe up all the wet bits
the strobe light moments
that turn on the cells
and go down good with sunrise