Fault line
The sun must be a liquid:
a molten fire -
one gigantic Johnny Walker in the sky.
The moon an afterthought:
an aspirin -
small wonder all those astronauts get blasted.
Three o’ clock:
the hour of Rubicon.
One more drink and I am home and here to stay.
I could ask for the bill
and leave under the pale, protective sign
of Sister Aspirin.
One more drink
and mine are all the blessings and the stigmata
of Brother Walker.