He is not scratching his eye
Bar fights beckon the bruised
boys of the newest millennium,
and in the blink of an eye
he scratches the edge of his face,
pulls away from the window,
sways like a girl, sometimes,
captivates the poet with her
sour breath in the corner.
Curls fists in innuendo like
the chunks of a rose unfurled,
iced-vanilla petals twirl
in an everlastingly perfect
continuum.

Throw winter at the wall
like a snowball, says fuck it,
and stumbles down the hall.