Like the life of the mind,
beer pushes suds.
It spins a halo—so happy to see us—
and begins its frothy ascension
of luxury cream,
Venus lifting the foam mattress.
And then, like a little Niagara,
beer comes to a decision—
you can’t say you weren’t warned—
and overwhelms the glass.
Frothy eel pit,
Mopping the foam from the table:
it’s like wiping spray from a trough
while panning for gold.
Or sopping up, with a cocktail napkin,
an evaporating mermaid.
And then, returning to the glass,
we lift a torch doused in the surf of time.
This is our brew against subtlety.
Even its fluff thickens eyelids,
puts us on a low, low setting,
and hauls the perfumed barge
of sleep in its wake.
Then, in a flourish,
beer signs its name with the legend:
you with your throat in a lather,
I am dread’s quencher,
You. You’ve had enough
existence for one day.