reypulque

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.