A Toast of Blue

A Toast of Blue

Twist off

and lick the under-

side of the cap,

mixing the metal taste

with the bleeding insincerity

inside your mouth.

Set the bottle down

and find that Skip James album

you tend to play in the dark.

Begin with his voice -

that wild, howling scream - 

and sink in the rhythm

of the guitar or piano

or his feet pounding the floor.

Sip with each lurch

of your soul.

Lift the liquid to a drop

on your tongue then read

the label four times in tune

and place it back,

clinking the table with its

glass serenade breaking you.

Your head slumps

chin to table,

you view the top

through tinted refractions,

overturned in its disgrace,

its humbled example.

To finish the drink

your eyes repair

their known motion,

aiming the tilting

of the empty

from stomach to mind,

from mind to mouth,

from mouth to glass.

And in this present

the ancient sounds slow

allowing these words,

in this place,

on this fault,

to cry myself true.