ryan quinn flanagan | slow night poem

Slow Night Poem

The moths of Chernobyl beat off
their wings
all over my window screen
candlewick whittled away
to nothing –
it has been a slow night
as such things go,
a familiar pattern, of late:
write too little
drink too much
puke over the porcelain
with legs crossed…
the dream has become a crooked neck
butterknife courage spread out
into soft oblivion,
I wash out my mouth
throw water on my face
stumble downstairs
(careful to hold
the railing).

Then I prepare some boxed pizza minis
in the oven.

Watch the Muay Thai matches
from Thailand.

125 lbs killers
kicking the shit out
of each other
with headdress
loin cloth
a rice bowl
to the

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