the guttural baritone fixes
the tone of the bravado.
  unafraid of the world's conspiracy
sweltering, is this fan of flame.

              luto
linis
           laba

  thumbing down a prayer
of the last leaf, this wondrous tendril.
   all the taverns shake still
in the spleen of contention.
       this is the penultimate tonic:
when the world is not moving
   and when all the bottles are drained
of their oceans, when the women are
   dull and our lovelorn duties double
  their weights, oh, and when we are
  at the edge of desires from what
   you perceive as "hairtrigger",

    we will once more savour the
  emptiness of all and wring
    the seas of their blue and guzzle
        a swig,
     drink or two even if you
know me not.