the yellow walls in your basement apartment
enclose us on nights we drink
you stumble and fall—
a corner into your hip.
the table in the kitchen is made
from the floor of the old bowling alley
thin strips of wood, smoothed
and grooved from the knocking of pins.
you slip and the carpet snags at the
buckles on your sandals.
miror quod foret sicet si ammaset me.
i still think of you on cold winter mornings, darling, they still remind me of when we were at school.
