Last year was last year
past midnight in this
city second-floor apartment.
Throwing darts against concentration
and dodging the champagne
passed around hand-to-hand
like a collection plate except
this vessel gives, gives, gives.
By now we’re used to the smoke
though tomorrow we’ll be disgusted
by the smell in our clothes, reeking like we
were out at SOME BAR last night.  I see
you grab at your lower-left side
and I’m feeling that too, I say,
that small, dull pain—as if I popped
something while stretching, or strained
too hard trying to hit that bulls.  You think
it could be the liver but I debate this
‘cause the liver’s on the right side, higher up,
more of a fourteen, not a two.

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