Peter Clive Poetry

A whisky grace

I raise a glass to you, Lord: there is no fountain,
no breath-taking conceit of ornamental marble
spouting perfectly orchestrated jets and arcs of water
that does not find its source without rolling up its sleeves
and reaching down through the sewers, stretching, fumbling
and squeezing dry the booze-swollen bladders of drunks at bar urinals
through which the water has passed on its way from Adam's lips to mine
since you first sent your spirit forth upon the undefiled firmament,


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