After seven Dewar's
straight-up because anything else
is less than enough;
after the premeditated swallows,
one blister-pack to a shot-
the segue of the day is a closed door
at the end of a hall, and this:

stumble-hand on a knob,
blast of TV glow slaps the mirror
and in it, the reflected you;
riddle of hair, bone, sated breath.
Sung asleep by his demons, Azrael waits;
splayed in handsome repose
on seminal sheets that smell of dirt-
nothing but whipcord, sinew, shit.

Almost finished here
putting prologue to past;
yesterdays sloughed like a bad tattoo,
the shucked angel lies revealed,
stripped truth pulled from its own debris.
Sweat-dappled Loki in a satin sheath
turns towards a mirror to see who is there.

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