Tilted Ground

That whiff of stale beer, sudden, raw,

hit me walking past the bar.

A memory, outside of law,

of leaning on a brick wall, far

from solid.

The rough, cold grit against my face,

the world just tilting, soft and slow.

My feet felt like they'd lost their place,

no solid ground, nowhere to go

but down.

A kind of numb, a blurry hum,

the streetlights streaked, then split in two.

A silent, slow, unwelcome sum

of choices made, and what went through

my head, then out.