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Luke Sykora

Rice Wine

Under an umbrella
we drink from the nonsense-
red glass to the movie in the bottle.
The edges are running,
the routine shows itself
as a robe,
an intricately sexual
silk house.
Prenatal, I came
with wings on my shoes
to headache Vesuvius.
Some girls,
I think, carried me
into Chinatown
where I sat at the end
of Li-Po Bar
talking to moonbeams, leaving
my self, which was
mostly water,
in acute, almost painful awareness
of a cocktail napkin.
Muttering again
and again, Nights
are miles and you
are the sun
they travel towards.
And the jukebox replied:
Nice Miles,
you are the stunned
traveler.