the steps down to the creek and the bridge that sways to pre-dug earth pock-marked with rain. I know I’m different from others weathered and broken defenceless from the pits. If I, vinegar-stripped lay my innards bare and open scratched-stiff, and free the last taste of wine would murder me. Things fall apart so easily. Those evenings, hot and cloying, fumbled and lost, touches dropped and sunk forgotten in gaps and evening frost. I have the creeping cold of frigid sickness sought stillness, I have felt death’s drunk kiss I have touched the darkest water and brought it to my lips.