Glenmorangie Single Malt
on the label:
nectar snatched on a slingshot
skim through duty-free
now dumped apricot
upon the coffee table.
Stuart serene on the couch
cross-legged Buddha
solemn and happy
and me lounging back
loosely laughing
through the mellow infusion
that heats my voice and hollows it,
syruping my tongue and
melting words in my throat.
Talk makes talk, so we ramble
-that’s the beauty of it all-
whisky flushed, creased with laughter,
eyes molten, tears hotter
than the globe
whose yellow light both makes
and mirrors the amber glow
that spills through the bottle
to splash upon the table,
then run and pool like random
conversation.
Afterwards, down the avenue of pines
or cedar, God knows what, we drift along
the luminous roadbed
banked between steepling branches
of dark trees, their shaggy
hair tied back by a strip of divinely
radiant sky, profligate with stars.
Cool beauty in the pools of light
lying gentle in the rocky darkness,
and far away, the joyful dogs running
invisible in the night.
Galeandra
