Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Bright light of prophecy sipped from the skull
of Nostradamus. You see the future
and it’s me drinking lager—my stein full
and huge as my head. Death is a vulture,
a sniper come to crosshair your dreams, your hand
outstretched, surrendering makeshift bone cup.
He predicted the date you’d dig him up,
and now, dearest grave robber, you have land-
ed in the afterlife. And after life,
il pleut dans la nuit, and the wet night
stretches like the succession of German
beers on which I sail my abused liver.