VIRCAPIO GALE

the last crow slept in the crook of an aspen
black wings sifting through eons of impossible love
and probable cause, white noise in a thimble of dark-
swelling in the private sea of your oblivion
like a gorgeous tide 
of raptures.
the last song stings, frothing in mint juleps
made of August and paint thinner.
you sleep with your doggo
slumped over a petulant joy as fickle
as an actual emotion
but on fire.

the night dawns and the irony is inescapable .
and your fumes are the sun…
and something you forgot
remembers you-
for a while.
.