suddenly the house is full of whiskey
i find it in drawers, i find it in the kitchen,
i find it in mossy corners of the room
where years ago
i sat my angry brother down
to speak with him.
that was around the time
my girlfriend left.
often i sit at my desk.
i was born with a limp
and sometimes i close my eyes
and navigate the house,
swollen with bric-a-brac,
navigate with smell and sound,
and my walking stick.
i find myself at the toilet unzipped
watching the water rattle.
l aim a spit that
intersects my piss,
my hand against the wall,
the walls, nicotine and cream,
smell and breathe.
my desk is cumbered with
flagged books and letters,
emails to dead writers.
i close my eyes and
i want to hear the sound of a fat engine
it’s thick, boar rumbling.
i want to drive fast
on an empty track.
i sit at my desk
and look at the light coming through the window
go through the whiskey,
it’s very beautiful,
the lit whiskey,
and i know there’s small parcels of wind
sounding around and through the bottles
and i strain to hear them.
