Half-filled

Here sits the glass half-filled, the missing half

Already drunk or never poured—hard to tell

From glass alone. More evidence is required.

It is an April evening, the month nearly half-filled

Itself—lo, tax day approaches!—but then again

Time is nothing if not half-filled, the intentions

Of the second or the hour ripening, perhaps,

Or falling from the vine a withered husk of

Undone thoughts and selves that will never be,

Wine undrunk, unmade. The world is wearing

Spring like a raiment, gossamer green fingers of

New leaves etched in pattern by an incadescent

Sun against a blue so blue it has no name—

God damn, this place, this time is perfect, and

Here I am, throwing words at it like cannon balls

In the hope that one or two will hit, evidence,

I suppose, of the missing half and the coupling

Of good intent with half-assed talent that

Leads to empty lines and empty glasses.

4/10/2023