drunk on poetry

sitting here,
1:46 a.m.,
drunk on poetry
and sleep,

hoping for a
mailbomb of poems,
from God
or myself
or you,
to go off in my hands.

my pockets are
empty and lonely;
except for my shadow.

the sky is
empty and lonely;
except for the stars.

and the pickled moon
spreads through
the window

to the
end of the room.

empty and lonely, too;
except for me.

–published in remark.