April 11

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Enough wine to soften the edges
and I’ll sink

back in the smallest hours
of the morning

offered sudden clarity
on a surprising parade

of recollections: The smell
of the metro in July.

The tune of a song
I haven’t thought

of in years. The line
of his jaw, one day

unshaven. I am not
a sad drunk, and this

is not a melancholy
poem.  It is purely

coincidence that
a bottle once poured

is never refilled,
and what might

have been often
appears in Technicolor,

putting memories
to shame.

 

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