Whiskey In Darkness / by Jake Brukhman

Later, with the dishes put away —
    “Do you take bourbon?”
Just a sip,
Or two.

With April’s columns
Stepping freely over girders,
North Brooklyn’s water-towered hill
Wanes black, framed on the pane’s wide altar.

These urban idols, watching heavily
By back wires, — the saffron vapors
Roll a major-seventh, and diminish;
Swift nose and body, then a groggy finish —
Thirst for lit bodies, bodies in windows.

As towers fixed,
We let the shadows gather
Into pitch and hours without price
Or value —
    “Why are we still talking?”