Belgian White

In the fading light

Of a salon afternoon 

I sipped Belgian beer

And read My Antonia

On a school assignment.

I forgot my cares

And felt no tremor of fear

In my wrist at the

Horror of discovery 

In mumbled anxiety.

Must I always drink 

To attain such clarity

Immune from rancor 

And the vise of self-loathing?

That seems a miserable fate.

But for the present

Moment, as the day withers

Into sudden dusk,

I can tolerate the gift

Of this dangerous reprieve.