how drunk—like a plague unquit–
sips at a time, and still, chalk fields—
a man alone in the traffic of
Paris—so’s

at the potted edge
of science, fiction, and the
River Churn—drink wars
to shreds—before

the lights lapse gold,
dresses do, and such with
wild eyes, mad sense to sex as
coffee ends in wine:

ah, sick i love the canker and
sore of sober cafés dolled up
at the tirades of the
second-hand Seine—