We are trying to remember the adage
bier auf wein or wein auf bier? Thing is,
we’ve already been pouring for a while.
Whatever headache is in the offing
is tomorrow’s, out beyond the circle
of lamplight, banished with work and
politics. Here around the table, we are
lubricated wit alone, old bodies forgotten.
Everything we say is wise, our decisions
immutable, like the moirae clacking and
tying off. When one bottle empties, we
reach for another, all poured into the same
glass. We are rivers rushing to the sea,
banks ever farther away, self foaming
one last time before sinking into swell.