The smell of juniper and quinine
cocktails decompose
over time I believe
in blackthorn sloe
iced rims and peels
at precise times
perfect blend
with just enough tilt
to justify everyday
long and low I go
around high-heeled
a pucker and a tart
on the edge
frayed by longing
tickled by tassels
a halted sneeze
anticipates blessing
that never comes
see me
dance down the pole
in your void
savagely horned
good heat
but little smoke
© Chagall 2014