I had a fifth of somebody’s
whiskey in my pocket. That night
the liquor kept me warm. Now
I flitter branch to branch outside your window,
lit with a thousand watts of something
I can taste and feel but cannot see.
I am moth wing in summer sky,
night bird not blinded or butchered
by your unkept, sleepless dogs.
—Bruce Weigl, from “Anniversary of Myself” in Archeology of the Circle: New and Selected Poems (Grove Press, 1999)