In Madrid, the bartenders
speak in cursive. Clairvoyants,
all of them. They volunteer
burnt wine, sweeten it
with candy-stripes.

The whole world crawls.

I’m on furlough
from a pepper mill
so with each swallow
become my name.
I am syrup, glaze,
a merchant of
cavities.

I will
make fruit cake
from my misery
and use it as a stool.

I will coat
the repertoire
of rumors
with a chocolate seam.