© 2019 Ruut DeMeo // featuring art by Tanya Ragir

photos of the artist: Steven Parke 

5 a.m.

Fine Print Literary Magazine, May 2018

Sadness can be swallowed

moist heat from Miles’ lungs in a 

brass tube. I drink it. My

breath is caught with longing, my

throat tight with ache, my

tongue tastes blue

 

this morning some birds push

night away with their calls. Time

is like the Monopoly money we left

scattered on the floor, scarcer

by the yellowing paper-years

 

Let not this currency be wasted on me

unmarked time, true wealth

let me not wake in a grave

made of real money, the breath

in my lungs squandered on what hung 

in the closet, or stood parked in the

driveway

 

let me render my intangible fortune

into song, as indigo sound spins moment into

decade

 

accepting its own nearness to death.