Wherever thistles wither, little knots
are knuckled, blossoms rot, leaf and stem.
Stitches loosen at a dress’s hem
while a mother jangles thimbles in her pockets.
The myriad ways to savor a Highland Scotch:
this churning storm cloud; the annoying friend
twisting in one’s chest; the scar beginning
to itch again, with a picture yellowing in its locket.
A melody wafts in on a gust of shame,
clad in rags and filthy, driving a hearse,
engine grinding, bangs and starts and fits.
A dissident sunbeam sets fire to the drapes.
This wine sours in its glass, and serves
only to hasten the knock of the blood in one’s wrist.