Golden brass-necked geese-looking spouts
fill the mugs of beer
at the bar
near where we sit, like some image
from a fairy tale or a dream we do not
wish to wake from
yet, even though
I tell her as I sip
this won't work,
this mirage we see or
maybe only I see,
and yet, I need to
feel it for as long as possible,
seeing her face across from me,
angelic, yet with a
touch of demon, too,
and I can't tell to
which I am attracted most,
inebriated on
something that has
nothing to do with the alcohol I consume.
And she?
I can't read anything in her wide open eyes,
only my reflection.
She is a mirror, showing me
what I want to see,
not what is,
not what will be, and I sip that drink more deeply
the drink the
golden-necked geese feed me
and get much more deeply drunk on her.
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