Fortuna Crapula
Infinity forks out in fractals
from a near-empty tumbler,
stretching out in
dumbfounding combinations,
a branching tree
of cosmic possibility.
A gymnast quarter,
somersaulting
from the flick of my thumb,
keeps the surrounding stares
drowning
in the dream of brew.
It lands
in a dwindling puddle of whiskey,
Washington in profile.
Damn.
Next round’s on me.



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