on tuesday at fourteenth and v

a poet might just save your life he
nodded, knowing, the truths spit
out from wine-red lips onto the floor

like that bottle of rioja the waiter
spilt that night we sat
in the corner and heard the priest

argue for equality
of ordination; you said
it was the candlelight

on my breast that caused
the contention; i said it was just
capitalism. it was still

raining; we walked
through sad poems
to get home, umbrellaless& reciting

rosaries of glass tomorrows.
we drowned only
in standing water once.