Of The Horse's Back

They hold chalices above their mouths
and the eggnog
never tickles their lips. It’s

stuck at the pommel.
The false-teeth manufacturer millionaire
nods. Aren’t those transitions between our

two coasts strange? One’s
bailiwick in this

case, is the dank snow falling
at the philtrum. Backward in a lovely
smoky hovel.

The girl smeared chocolate mesquite
at piano. And we all poured ourselves
into bed.