Gin, David St John

You know, your friends complain. They say

You give up only the vaguest news, and give a bakery

As your phone. Even your stories

Have no point, just lots of detail: The room

Was long and bright, small and close, angering Gaston;

They turned away to embrace him; She wore

The color out of season,

She wore hardly anything at all; Nobody died; Saturday.

These disguises of omission. Like forgetting

To say obtuse when you talk about the sun, leaving

Off the buttons as you’re sewing up the coat. So,

People take the little

They know to make a marvelous stew;

Sometimes, it even resembles you. It’s not so much

You cover your tracks, as that they bloom

In such false directions. This way friends who awaken

At night, beside you, awaken alone.