cuban cigar smoke traces
your head
translucent tendrils, male medusa
your red-eyed glare could
halt
the hand of death and proffers
that hand
should your stare
slink
away and cling to another
the jukebox parodies
“under the milkyway”, it’s
voice admixed, strangers
burble their vowels and consonants irregularly
pings and pops
the only true warmth
we keep to ourselves
knowing votives are
not eternal.







