Drinking Game

A conundrum drums its way
through the rum-tinted air,

flaring up intermittently
in riotous tantrums.

So I turn to my phantom limbs.
The salted rim of my glass.

It seems that somehow
I’ve fallen ass-backwards

into a mountain of tears,
bruised by the sheer intensity

of its grief. Had only I been born
an autumn leaf, I’ve not have to

cope with such injury.
Hopeless happenstance.

The dance of desert winds
in the sullen eye of time.

-r. miller

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