Then comes the heavy shadow
of Grand Mariner in a snifter.
Left behind on the mahogany
like a confession…
Poured over the body
morphing into a scent.
The fermented retch
milking the vomit.
Whispering, flaying the peel
the ghost of the orange.
Skinned by the fingernails
dissolving in the throat…
“Should have drank rye.”








