Of course, I recall the decanted pour,
the skewering aromas, the sanguine
tinge. I miss it in ways, like alleyways on
a hand-drawn map of a hometown that
you can’t return.
Please don’t make a thing of it, my
declining of promising vintage, of
promised liberation. I’ve seen
Liber themself; androgynous
and sheer mad power.
The altar I prayed at was the
altar I was wed at and the
alterations did me no good, did me
into the ground, did me dirty in a decade
I can’t recall.
Please don’t heap condolences; I’ve
slept in this self-made bed long enough
to be princess to any pea. Declining
is its own freedom; calculated
and ripe with power.
Keith Burton is a graduate student at Montclair State University. He resides in New Jersey with his wife and cats and dog, where he occasionally makes records and often drinks coffee.