COLD FRONT

Apart from cracks on the Formica 
counter top around the bending 
curve of my eye I can not discern 
anything through my shot glass
  
The rumblings of a city in dusk 
seep through the slurry of hushed 
undertones merging stainless steel 
clinks from glasses slowly stirred 

In this labyrinth collecting mirrors 
no one bothers looking at each other 
directly for the point of that was lost 
long ago with the reflected hosts 

I sink into the magnified pores 
of her face held balanced on a stack 
of merging surface edits like a drawn  
bath displaced by a weary body 

It's been many revolutions since 
I can remember spring time   
and for that I should ordinarily feel 
sadder than the beer ads on the wall

Cheerfully I determine that mixing 
drinks with indentured silver ware 
may distract the focus from a certain
familiar melody floating by 

Its coruscating pattern of decaying 
notes drifts along into the distance 
like so many flakes of ash rendered 
gray as the moon in winter

The cracked fields of this lit valley  
fade before the inland sea evaporates 
into silence here on a world whose 
name evokes nothing but dirt

I'd rather not think about it since
my drink became too evenly mixed 
for me to want another sip from 
the cold inversion boiling outside