Those below are not alone in suffering
those who party above: they woke me too.
Reflexive thoughts travel to traduce them;
can curses gravel their oblivion?
What is some couth imprecatory verse
to what no man can put together? Bent
brooding below my window, rain descends
to fill discarded beer cans, air empties
what we used to call silence, and Texas
feels like the sea today: a cold room
colder with context. Ambiguity
is not the word. Instead: the word is death.
Beer nor water now, breath nor snowshine.