Some nights, I find myself
in the kitchen late, the vessel of
my body floating half-awake
before the digital glow of the
oven clock, the ice maker’s
murmur like a jury’s deciding
the fate of nations, then a crash
as the cubes unloose, and who
needs ice cream at 2 AM?
My torso sways, a domino
about to fall towards stale
cigarettes concealed behind
the cookie jar, and cold
vodka in the freezer, the
bottle on its side, its white
sea empty, the ship inside
long sunk with no survivors