A day in the mess of

Van Morrison plays
to a beaten face
as I consider the wagon.
Hands tired
from sweeping glass
and scrubbing walls.
Eyes tired
from sleep
that isn't sleep.

I picture her;
the milky skin
of a model
and a smile
that I keep
wiping from her face.
I can't be him
anymore...
Back to killing the wolf.

Every sip at the bottle
is more distance
between the two of us,
and she is about to step
over the horizon.
I don't know what
I was trying to escape,
but now is the time
to let it come.