I gazed into a bottle, Scotch, half-drunk,

and saw the glossy amber glass devour

the light above the table. And within,

it flirted, flickered like a quiet flame

to kindle, swell up sudden, then destroy.

Embers toast the most ascetic monk,

and with the weight of pleasure-flesh, his power

falters, so I wonder—which sweet sin

shall gloss the sable label of my name?

Which flame will feed upon my love-life joy?

-x2A