Portrait of a Room

A six-pack of beer
bottles
glints white light from
florescent
to brown glass
like super-heated sand.
They taste
soapy
as bubble crusted suds
though more drinkable
than
organic shampoo oils or
milky run-off,

more drinkable than the
uneven, un-liquid air
that steals free-passage
from
red-streaked lungs.

Red floral curtains reveal
the amber tinted blue light of dawn
seemingly suddenly, though night recedes
slow; night hides its deep in deeper
depths under waves of gray and blue;
the rattle of rain breathes a grayness
of sound, and
I sleep finally, too late to hear.