The pigment of the sun was coming up,
carroting the sky and patio,
a bowl a mirror a divining:
Would I?
Drunk. The bond between us, weak.
The consequences like a tomb
of poisoned pharaohs—I was weighing
trickeries, the thievery of luck
when something struck. Low
boiling, volted—
then the noble, liquid way
he reached to undertake me.