Goodnight, my love. Someone has spilled beer on the table and under the low lamps it perfectly glows, like a secret burning in the air. This is a partial list of things you do not know: my heart, your heart, the far-off sound of violence, the pre-dawn s k y. Forgive me; I am not always this drunk and free. Tomorrow if you call me up I will be kinder, more strategic, penned-in. My voice will keep us both warm so that you can lean back, half-laugh, and take responsibility for your share of the wreckage. I will promise not to aim sharp truths at the apple on your head. You will simply extend it toward me in your open palm – love-line, life-line, skinny rivers and bone – and say, Eat up.
I always do.