Mouth, what happened to the Riesling in the glass?
He kissed me twice. My tongue will not let go the glass.
To what catastrophe do you, Hand, raise a glass?
The wanting hard, the losing, or the death of want?
My hours are filled to the brim with his absence.
There is no room for you, Elbow, in the glass.
Stop thinking, Brain, of him, get out and do something!
I got it out and fucked with men who were his glass.
The left side of his neck was white and soft and strong,
head tilted, so as not to spill, towards his glass.
The heart is finally a form of repetition
in this container body, in this empty glass.
Jee shuts his mouth and buries his nose in the wine
to learn to want the air wanted by the glass.