Monstrous metal intestine, hefty

on a bed of bricks, designed to convey drab

must, your ample-bowelled cucurbit (alchemy

from Memphis transmuted though the Arab)

part modern magic, part ancient ritual.

Swan’s neck choked with vapor, copper balloons

flushed, you twice refine that water, your coil

a snaking serpentine through cool.

By these colossal means, subtlety:

steady drops of pure, clear condensate;

from your alembic gut a delicacy

to satisfy the most discerning palate.

The brewers set aside the angels’ share

of eau de vie. And this is only fair.

 

(First published in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, 14 June 2017.)

 

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