Cold Pastoral
It was a misty pool, like a primeval lake,
atop the bar, below his honey-stung lips. His skin
was dull, the last leaf of winter, under
the white sky of his hair.
He crooked himself around the heavy glass
as if to save it, a jewel of great price. Around him
moved the barkeep, placid as a doctor,
the ladies young and old whose many colors danced,
the suave silverbacks of his father’s peers,
young shining hotshots, all caught
in mirror after mirror at cool remove, not a soul
within reach of his flaking hand.
A shimmer of muscle upended the glass, and
liquid amber swirled with saliva over cherry wood,
blurring the edges of a paper fortune:
You see beauty in all things.
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