Her Evening Liquor

O—
Leave a space where memory
of silver liquid may fill it—

the course of our horizon’s flinty
shinbone tended crystal and thin.

These oblique American
hours shudder into being—

throw off each previous on a
shapeless hinge

and return gilded, braced
like twine to warped oak.

Where flesh meet bone—
recast steely lightning

and of early impetus,
heat, dully lit—

a digging, waxy trail.
Her evening liquor

stands with tremors—
frothy livid flames.