It takes a moment—
maybe two— mouthed one thousands as
day catches up to the night,
the patched up tongue and
hangdog eaves riddled with
webs and smoke, the incense
without an altar, shoeless
gods and hungry ghosts
eying the lip of the cup.
Dribbling over the rim, beading
down the seeming skins, dribs and
drabs missed by the darting
licks of language, evidence of
the sin of indifference before
the blessings of plenty, that
animal attention, blood and appetite
your restless focus pretending
at kisses, regifting oblivion.
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