I’ll take a glass of wine—a red
rose—turn it inside out,
feel its velvet nose against my ribs
from the inside
of the cage
I’ll pace
myself,

take a bite
of solid food, something
dead, covered with fried bread,

go back to the red—
I always dread
the white
page of day with its blue
lines, trying to stay
straight and narrow or
college-ruled.

Almost drunk now—in the middle-ground—between
the firm bed-
rock granite, flashing to the snow-
bladed senses

—between them—

and the marshy bottoms that never show
their secrets
face-up—not quite

sober, not quite
drunk—
in the bluesy, juicy slush
that you just can’t trust—

but do.



© 2004 by Terry Lucas

Previously published in Rosebud