Stop reading if it isn’t late at night.
And if there is any light,
let it be the glow of a half burned candle.
You must be alone to understand
this tale of disappointment:
that the number of people in a room
can be too large and too quiet
and too drunk to understand your poetry,
even if it’s the only thing you’ve ever said
worth saying out loud
Morning will burst in other houses
and like the wine and the weed,
your words have gone up in smoke—
for a moment filled a hollow space,
stirred the air with transparent wings