Integer.

She sways, strays
comes along and stays
touching my weakest nerve
my bones merge
calculating feign integers.

One is dispossessed
much soaked in malady
for loneliness
can sap
can diminish one's apathy.
Tonight is meant for the lonely
and I have my wine.

Wine makes me stumble
cover up and hurry up
fall down, stay flustered up.
It makes remember
of what one's become
an evocative tune to memories
your chest when undone.

For when grazing bits are roast
smoke becomes sand dunes
to resplendent wins and
scant victories in thin margins.
unattended, not tuned.

These margins
within which I write
are acute in hindsight
they stumble us more than memory
silently sashaying
a revert milked with jealousy.

The wine has purchased me
it now stifles
bargains at ease
and then when I give in
it barters a squeeze to peace
I am unable to speak.

But you say one
should write maturely now
though
you really don't read.
So show courage and cheek
bite and sweep
eat my tender nose
for sore means
the enemy within
shall tonight sleep alone.
Alone.

Moiety.

An afternoon bathed in hearth
bodies browsed by incandescence
can stymie a stack of whims
a Delhi dipped in chatoyance.

For ardor carries on unabridged
when argued with, it ravels thin
like red ants that inch to trick
a fetching mirage filled with summer sins.

Their they're seized by providence
a colony unclasped, high on confidence
furtively abandons pattern, retreats
perhaps addled,
perhaps a lack of discipline.

On their little toes, they menace
forked, diverging, increasingly tense
a reluctant pool of swimming ants,
lying naked, inaminated on the circumfence