To the night, the sole

To the night, the sole, belongs worrying.

You are still up and talking to a made up son

about the noose in the letter L for love,

how tight it fits and how it strangles.

In the next room your girlfriend waits,

proficiently futile, she makes out with a

fantasy that knocks her up and makes her sing.

A hand from yesterday goes through your record collection,

makes Mahler's Kindertotenlieder creak like stairs 

to the forbidden room in which you caught your mom and dad

making the child they really wanted.

You raise and suck the bottle, taste the sum

of your swaying thoughts and you tell your sealed silence

to remain.

On the table with legs wide open an atlas beckons.

You lick your fingers and go for it.