half poem draft

sent to me today, someone found in their inbox

note to self: remember the angular
scales of the boa, the sharp math
of the guitar scale, the smoke in her
hair, her kiss on fire, your lips smoldering.

it was the end of the century, the very
edge of long island, the banks of the east
river being lapped to sleep by dead bodies
and beer bottles. it was the end

of an error, the end
of punishing yourself, the end
of the death of the doppleganger
in the mirror each morning.