Burnt

Girls bring me stories about you as if you’re still alive,
as if I need in your absence.
As if I’ve an urn for your ashes.
As if I ever did.

This bottomless bottle of ethanol
pouring into my face for ten months
is a fine substitute.

It’s probably where you belong, anyhow –
corked
and chucked into the San Sebastián Bay,
finally just a temporarily dormant ingredient in someone else’s toxic cry for help.