I lick the knife
and call it a night.
I slurp her soup
and try not to think about you.
Later layers,
new dark,
now dark,
comedy,
cumbersome.
Slick Bowery sellout,
Netflix,
then burnt tongue.
As of now,
I have two tattoos
for you.
In an older man's voice,
mine,
I say aloud that
there is nothing left
for the well.