T drives me to the coast for work, a black sky 

feigns oblivion. I’ve been starving for months

done the stuff films tell you not to. There’s less 

of me to worry about. I once got so wet 

nothing could help. Everything is closed; 

off-season, empty like a spent hen.  

I follow the road until it becomes a sea

straight-lining so I don’t get lost. I’m not

sure how I’m getting through these nights. 

The hamster is excavating its bed while I text 

strangers. I can’t sleep; he sweats in the alley 

like a stray. She’s a cheaper lover than I am

if she only writes you acrostic poems. T thinks 

we’d make great travelling salesmen, glitters 

when she tries it. I don’t know how to be angry 

except for those last two times. I think we’re going 

to need another bottle. I grieve old love on the glass 

and the room like a mouth falls down.