Burn Poem by Leo Yankevich

Better than the burn of booze
when Jack Frost penetrates your bone
is the cheap skid-row wine you use
to light the day when you're alone.

As spleen and liver give up ghosts
the leaves go golden on their stems,
then fall before the lord of hosts
who neither cares, saves, nor condemns.

The hand of the grandfather clock
moves you towards a grotto grave,
while you lie ready by the rock
or say goodbye beneath a wave.