Dipped in the Spit of Williamsburg

Dipped in the spit of Williamsburg

I wear my aura on my shoelaces

And they are blue and thinning

She seemed to smile when I apologized

She seemed to show a tooth over a drink

Maybe we danced like ghosts

Holy fuck

The clouds were thick and low and together

That evening when she said “come”

I felt the sheets slide against my back

The words may have been French novels

The thoughts may have been scenes from downtown

It is all something like an empty dock in a hurricane

Sometimes I press a thumb to the dirty sidewalk

And imagine her footprint is somewhere underneath it

And my nails want to rip into something that isn’t there

Over a drink I am alone in a cloud of lowness

I am not dancing with another tooth

Smiles have become similes of smiling

But the buttered rabbit was delicious

And the wine made me feel good in a pair of lips
dipped in the spit of Williamsburg