after a sober Spring,
which was preceded by a whiskey winter
which was preceded by a rose summer,
split between the ruins of LA
and the storms of the East,
I will joyfully return
to a dimly lit Brooklyn
at the end of the month,
but I don't have a grasp on it anymore
and that scares me,
so I go to sleep in an old t-shirt
that reads Bowery Poetry Club,
and I have nightmares about her hair.