I�ll take a glass of wine�a red
rose�turn it inside out,
feel its velvet nose against my ribs
from the inside
of the cage
I�ll pace
myself,

take a bite
of solid food, something
dead, covered with fried bread,

go back to the red�
I always dread
the white
page of day with its blue
lines, trying to stay
straight and narrow or
college-ruled.

Almost drunk now�in the middle-ground�between
the firm bed-
rock granite, flashing to the snow-
bladed senses

�between them�

and the marshy bottoms that never show
their secrets
face-up�not quite

sober, not quite
drunk�
in the bluesy, juicy slush
that you just can�t trust�

but do.



� 2004 by Terry Lucas

Previously published in Rosebud