Final Call

I am a gambler with obsidian chips,
their edges leaving lacerations on
my desperate palms.  My lover had
tried to read the foamy cuts.  But
Faust knew delirium and Dante
knew knowledge, whence and forth
that black fickle fang of gambler’s
remorse would over my gullet swoon
and drink nectar of all my black guilt.
The green table looked as grass, spikes
of glass littered around, waiting for a
child’s foot, or a lover’s last chance.

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