Topside
Little spirit under foot,
In sole, rut-stuck,
Out of control and
Dragged from where I leave and go,
Keeps calling, calling,
“home now, love.”
Taping ashes raining past
Stuck red lipped fringe
On bourbon glass
Stains deeply, deeply,
Heart heavy hunger
For the past.
Frankly, I think I’m still dying.
JN




