I wished on a gutter in passing
and was led back to it.
It glistens now with
the full moon reflecting on its edge.
He gives me no remorse
from his angle. I, the poet
of nothing from everything,
once provided, lies
at the throne of a drunk, the stream
of oil, water, and piss. It anoints me
and I take its Eucharist
for the sake of salvation from its own
damnation. I look to the moon for trust,
but he left me at the gutter
to my own devices, my own means
of faith.
I look to my glass next to me,
but it is empty,
its mouth toward me, silent.
Nothing will fill it,
not even the stream
where abundance seems to flow.
I light my last cigarette and
flick it for the wind to handle
like a burning leaf.
It will be manipulated,
but won’t burn out until
it reaches its filter.