Patronage

Glasses clink. Work begun.
Deals fermented, offerings
to local deities, both agrarian
and commercial.

At the river, moose drink. They turn,
the scents of grapes, juniper, comfrey.
The harvest has begun. Antlers
rubbed in anticipation.

The distiller rinses, checks,
tastes. A lifetime spent
not drunk, but perhaps tipsy.
He dreams of monastic life

As the abbots on the hill
purchase, smuggle, consume.

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Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. He went through a messy divorce with Facebook some months ago, and as a result his relationship with time is much improved. Recent/upcoming appearances in Ghost City Review, Minor Literature[s], and Barking Sycamores, among others.