A Frosted Mug

Bliss sits on the corner of bar and blitz.

Thin foam rogues its bloat. A dripped chin.

Someone on the road is loading the car

for the farthest trip. Distance titillates.

A curve of glass traps the light, invites

the cupped caudal fin, gasped lips. Don’t

wince once. A porthole is a winking eye,

blind, submerged. Don’t blink yet.

This too will tumble. These will froth

and bubble and ferment. Below the boards,

a body brews silence in seminal beads.

One round glimmer succumbs to amber

flow. Cold is warm. Gold the form

when body is immaterial. We know

the body is, at best, a material, soul

spilling over. Carbon spinning up.