Damn those remorseless worms. They build a nest in the bottom of the bottle and pretend to be egregious agave. They drink it down as if they could live in the stuff.
‘They dangle from the rock,’ she said. ‘They think of everything.’
‘All they think of is dirt,’ he said. What you leave is what you come back to.
The shadows grow longer. The leaves that could blow in the high hills are left to shatter like old plate glass, convinced that they reflect nothing.
Two shadow poets climbed out on to the slate quarry that backed up on to the lake. They poured some tequila on the rocks.
Was this the blessing or was the lake just drunk?
They liked to give the slate roses and wine, these poets, and pieces of dark chocolate, and they will, nay, may, recite their poems—their poems as tears.
Poetry dwells in deep, deceptive places. In a drunk lake, for instance. Or in a final landscape. In the final breath of life.
Poetry dwells between Tequla and salt, they thought.
Tipsy as a sandbar.