Face wet, I step into candlelight,
take out my lenses. 

Racehorses blur in the dark rain
[slow motion, radio on].

They say Negroni Season
won’t come around again,  

low-stakes love doesn’t burn for long.
Old betting tickets line the floor. 

I know you intend to elope
with my best ideas – a spineless  

highwayman galloping
into miasmic distance.

You won’t get far
on a gambling-damaged horse. 

I am closer than you would like,
my face wetter than ever. 

Now morning has arrived
like a debt-collector, 

is yours even slightly moist?