James Gifford


Bold Brazilian Lisa
behind the bar,
Jonnie’s Scottish singularities—
bored with Traditional,
Honey-Brown hopes of Hoegaarden
tap eternal.

Sit in the shadow on
the second floor,
where mute beer with bitter lemons hum
till “last call!” and cunning
closing music, buzzing crumhorns,
sings, salves selves home.

Watch, boy, hot chai chats here,
behind the bar:
the world. A still-born “could have” recedes
and minds seed on smoke seams—
this is a clean, well-lighted place.
This remedies.

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James tweets and somehow convinced people a book on elves and anarchism could be a real thing.

PoetryJeremy Bibaud