Chinese Ink

The sky gets shut down
              with winter clouds
as I zero in to zone out
                              but like Eddie Poe
              cradling a 40 of laudanum
sitting back in a burgundy naugahyde
Laz-E-Boy

              near the outer limits of a
                              lassitude to be so devoutly pursued

& it’s like a grip of smoke
              where the strings of my
                              demolished harpsichord snap in the
              vast tidal sweep
                                                on a moonlight drive
                              off the end of the pier
              with you still wearing those pearl-colored
                                                                neon shades