It’s winter and I can no longer uncouple the roots from the soil,
so I work at untangling the branches from the sky.
My fingers become numb as dusk silently closes the bar
with no “Last Call.” Drunk mermaids have emerged
from Prufrock’s final stanzas to giggle, each to each.
Adept at retrieving their sotted souls
from the basin of their ignorance,
I single out a blonde
and whisper something bluer than her eyes
as she holds onto my arm like
a lost saint.
