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.