Drink

If this light writes

the ale of fortune

stripped of vine

can it be the tongue

of merriment

or the eyes of stars

squinting at moon's

steady rail ?

But basking the lighter blurr

grapes the stilled haloes

that ache mornings wince

and yet can the long-sighted soothsayers be

those who shrink the printed

blink of days silk

just to preen

or flint

and spark calumnies draught

to shudder in

the human tithe of the past ?