l'ivrogne (the drunkard)

nestled in a street gutter (sweet, like grain)
plunking tunes drift
swindling hands turned angry




turquoise moment—now navy
this familiar scent of atrophy (anachronistic, perhaps)

a trophy: a bottle of wine: a caught cork crumb
now poured
now l’homme
maintenant the man
floats farther out, to sea, farther out (swiftly, like running oil)
the scrap of stopper
still gripping the glass wall
even in an empty bottle