December 6th(Poem)

With a perfumed heart,
blooming veins,
and drunken metaphors
Carole loved the moon.

A few nights later,
it went away
like a magic candle on a birthday cake
or a stowaway in a train.

The velvet curtains too missed
the moonlight
though they are the cowboys
who chase away the cold photons
entering the room when the clock hits
a certain angle.

The waves of melancholy
let her hate the virtual—zoom calling boyfriend too
let her hate the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe too
let her hate the zigzagging art she drew too.

All for a Moon?

I don’t know.
These humans all too easily
trade their blames.

—Drunken Plant.

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