Читать книгу Broom Broom - Brecken Hancock - Страница 15

In the brume

of hangover

I dog-paddle

day. The oasis

of convalescence

appears solely

via nostalgia.

At the node

when I rake

back damp

hair, erosion

ratchets my gut.

Who’s tut-tutting?

The bile

rinding my skin’s

benign. In

every pang

a bullet of yin –

wine’s its own

antidote. Beyond

its obvious notes,

oak, fog, neap

tide, daily bread –

alone at night,

I Sandy the bed.