Quaff

Notable the covert spring of anger trickling,

wending its way, and the road invigorating

below stands of sycamores, oaks. It was

a competition of playlists. I wanted the freest poem

in the world. So I complimented her brows

seeming to lift in intimate flight like a Truffaut scene,

which was catnip to her ears. The shifting

illuminations cast lines on the ceiling. Glug, glug—

those first nights came to us again. We pulled

onto the breakdown lane and drank deep.