Ah, burning wine,
how welcome you are,
when the black static sky
crackles with cold.
Brown noise in throat,
rye seed glow,
slow unguent
of gentle forgetting.  

I've lost the shine,
surface marred
then polished high,
the flaws are old
as my childhood coat,
lost in the woods' green dough.
Ah, brennivin, you have no judgment
for my ritual bloodletting.