Face wet, I step into candlelight,
take out my lenses.
Racehorses blur in the dark rain
[slow motion, radio on].
They say Negroni Season
won’t come around again,
low-stakes love doesn’t burn for long.
Old betting tickets line the floor.
I know you intend to elope
with my best ideas – a spineless
into miasmic distance.
You won’t get far
on a gambling-damaged horse.
I am closer than you would like,
my face wetter than ever.
Now morning has arrived
like a debt-collector,
is yours even slightly moist?