It’s a cold night
for a party
but the champagne in
my paper cup is
cutting away the brisk feeling.
The conversation
dissolves into groups
of letters and symbols
that barely fit in our pockets.
When we trade words goodnight
and I get into the seat
next to you, you lean toward me
and I press my face into
your hair.
Ahead are
dotted lines,
a blue colored map with continents cut out -
just furniture,
desks floating in the ocean.
The night disappears
and we take turns
at the ship’s wheel,
moving with no wind
but the power
of a rogue wave
that tastes like red wine
and makes the anchor on your shoulder
shine in the darkness.

poem by Sean U’ren

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written by Alex Amelines \\ tags: New Work