Much as I’ve

failed, for all


I lack, alone as I

may look without


the phone I left

home, bring me


more wine, nice

man, and please


don’t call

me that.




* * *





Juliet, Jillian,

harlot Jill,


in French jillet,

the flirt, unfeeling,


felt, who flung her

don into the dirt,


having fanned

his flame,


the abrupt slut

who ended it.



* * *





Your limber twist,

your cocky slalom,


swivel, pivot, pirouette,

how did they turn


into a skewed shuffle

across a crooked room?


In this humidity,

the door won’t close.


You stoop to tie

huge shoes.