For A Patron of the Arts at NOMA, On Hangovers

Rising from the misting Styx
of a too-bright April morning,
the birds in malice drag their song
across my eyelids
and gurgle stomach’s rushing

me to the porcelain running oracle.

Prostrate, awed by mortality,
and heaving to an ancient
Roman rhythm,

I am a geologist:
the strata of night time,
of cheap wine
and fried faces dancing glazed,
the waving nationalism,
the mottos of good times,

all in a sudden academic rush
to the trance at Delphi.

Exhausted, purity shakes my spines
as crawling, my bed enshrines.

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