Two Tricks by Lana Bella

it is like the sickness of vanity:

each of my stirring is wired in

a storm, with the hot throb of 

sins and drips of morphine, I 

find there is never a right time 

or candid reason for contempt, 

so I drink the bottom-shelf wine,

smoke the smooth of Winston

cigarettes, caress the lithe form

of a French doxy, then slide into 

the warmth of darkness’ embrace,

until sunrise crawls up the stairs 

of my heavy eyes, while the two 

tricks of bottom edges of nostalgia 

lay naked and damp, one breathes 

sounds, the other, struggles to rise