I have decided to do my creative thesis
on craft beer. I foresee a lucrative future
as an educator of young enthusiastic men
with prodigious beards. Writing about drinking
is just like singing about architecture
inspired by dancing – see how all the gables
pirouette gamely toward the street?
Every doorway a pas de deux?
Raise a glass to the inevitably abstract
concept of quality, the popular opinion
that something must be art
if you can’t prove it’s good.
This is how God always manages to appear
in the stigma of a lily, specked with rain
on an afternoon so musical
the clouds have formed a marching band,
trombones stretched across the horizon
like a deep, brassy apology.