After Anna Akhmatova’s I Wrung My Hands:
I wrung my hands pouring this dark ale. . .
“Viscous like oil, what makes you special?”
— Because I have made myself drunk
with an Imperial Stoutness.
I’ll never forget. It poured a massive, thick head;
its mouthful was twisted, biting. . .
I let the bottle warm downstairs, too cold yet for proper tasting,
and once warm tasted it again with the wife.
And surprisingly, drinking: “I marvel at your complexity
and character. A big, potent beer, best shared with others.”
The empty bottle smiled at me — oh so calmly, terribly —
and said: “If you can find me again, buy another.”