HUCKLEBERRY



the heat is gone or just waiting
i dont drink whiskey every day
but here is the ice you need
to prepare for your middle age
to say good good good
to my patted head
the lick of thinned hair curled
behind my ear
i can french braid my beard
or by a horse and ride it to the top
of a hill in october
i am still talking to you
dont you know who i am
still a flyrr
whrrring-ing-ring
am i enough to hold down the liquor poured
my hemingway-grave
hands blister from shovel handle
i cannot take the place of youth
i won't be a bridge to the moon
but take what is left in my labored lungs
my marrow tastes sweetest
when you leave it in the sun all day
or sit next to me
with our feet in the river
seeing a face
but not touching it