A shrug as you count and find
Rather very but sufficiently nice.
Vainglory flows from the cups we have shared.
Satiated and plump, we each go our way.
We shape this damp shroud between us
We cast it pearls to rummaging snouts
We batter some life in things long left dead
We scratch our wounds raw.
After the party
We linger and drain once-intimate gestures
of meaning, magic and trust.
Empty cups, vain promises,
Hopes unsated, we just miss.