I make it my general practice

not to drink and write.

At least, I try not to drink

when writing fiction,

where the prose should be clear

and lucid as water,

even as it refracts the light.

But poetry’s a different matter.

A little whisky never

hurt a poem. Not much, anyway.

Certainly not this

glass of it, distilled from smoke

that might have

scribbled words like these in

the air as it

jittered away, leaving only this

amber residue,

not so transparent as it appears.  




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