Moon in My Bourbon

by Ed Brickell

The depth of the bourbon

is the height of the moon,

pines and aspens reaching 

for each other, breeze shared 

back and forth in silver shiver,

pine needles ticking at our feet,

falling soft on a fumbled caress

between our Adirondacks,

perhaps not the best chairs

for lovers to seek a moment,

but we are always older now

and moments are fewer.

I maneuver close to kiss you,

my ninety-proof moon spatters

through trees in a ghostwash,

spills in the sound’s dark surging,

turns Mount Desert to marble,

spotlights your opening lips,

breaks apart on waving branches

while rising whole above our deck,

where soon you will knock over

my empty glass, not long after

the moon leaves my bourbon

to climb the mountain,

guide our sleepwalk to bed,

tiny moons behind us

in each scattered shard,

swept away in the morning.