Mellow the Morning After

The morning after, the room exhales
its smoke and mellow wax.
Bivalves cradle each other on a forgotten plate.
Lip prints, crumpled napkins, the tint of sun

like an unmade bed — all that happened, happened,
in an instant of excess;
like a poem, it wings itself 
without words, long life or perfection.

The slow unpeeling of a lemon 
on a painter’s canvas will not convince us
to mind our decadence.
Time does pass — that’s why we celebrate.

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