After Rainer Maria Rilke’s The Panther
This vision, from the constantly pouring bottle,
has grown so thickly golden that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to me there are
a thousand Hefes and in front of them all, Paulaner’s.
As it fills my pint glass, over and over,
the rising of a pleasant, aromatic, puffy head
is like a ritual dance around the glass lip
in which a mighty thirst will soon partake.
Time after time, the mouthfeel of the brew
engages, subtly—. A perfect taste enters in,
rushes down over tested, tried taste buds,
wins over my heart and my mind.