poem | The 10-Hour Nocturnal Potion
Languages tossed in my head,
Alcohols stirred in your glass, my bowl,
Stories kneaded in the thick
Air, chop as we go —
Ingredients we are familiar with are taking forms we have yet to know.
One cigarette begs the next, begs for the next.
One alchemy begs for you, begs for me also.
Take a sniff, a swirl, a sip —
Here we conjurers take it slow.
But are you ready for another? Say so.