Haze

It’s not just the vodka
stirring in my gut
that’s making me sick
nor the taste
of someone’s dry tongue
on my breath, nor
the slow waning pulse
of the street lamp
above,
nor the echo of sirens
closer further closer
nor the second hand
smoke nor the
second hand blurring
on my wrist
nor the tick ticking
of morning nor the gulls
screech
in the dreary grey light
the grey dreary light
the dreary grey light.

Everything is familiar
and I am so lost.