Alize

I can remember drinking

that too-sweet wine

in the sorozo, where fat

men sweat over fruit machines.

I led you through charcoal

wallpaper to the wrong

side of the looking glass,

road signs shrank

like night butterflies

in paper cups, owls

framed a tiny door.

We were lizards basking

in a decollage of glass,

brick and plastic, crows

pecking at a landmine,

we bent teaspoons

down throats

to steal yawns.

Among a shadow puppet

theatre of the grotesque

silhouetted on gables,

we are butter drenched.

I clutch my brown envelope

like a lunchbox,

and leave.