With a series of txts we

With a series of txts we
I take wine
We share a plate of
The light dim, the candle
talk   poetry   anarchy
& how not to
& how bad my
& how clumsy
& how we hate mornings

We move outside so he
take our
I   up
I stare at   try to look
because of his
staring to one side when he talks
His eyelashes are dark & delicate
His hair is trashed
His pencil-sharp knife-free nose,
longline chin marred by unshaven

He isn’t well, I should let
But he   a cigarette
& txts some
his fingers so long, so soft

(First published in Cottonmouth)