In my skull there are copper stills, fermenting
above sheep fields. Stray song lyrics stroll among
American bourbon barrels and Spanish sherry
casks licked smooth by grist.
Which resembles the pamphlet but nothing
else, does it? Wet pipelines shuttle mash
and wort, my pockets conceal tired boarding
passes. I drink in the on-site bar until the Grey
Lady ghosts by, then stumble back to the tour bus
and threaten to go streaking, Who’s with me?
It rained today. The cool hills blued
with evening, like many times before.
My whole day was a waste;
I missed castle ruins sleeping it off.
A week in and already I’ve been naked
on grassy hills, drunk in dark bars, obsessed
with the cantankerous sky.
I know there’s nothing special about me
being here; I see the same things as all
the others, exclaim the same compliments.
But here in a warm wood-panelled bar, I’ll pound
my hand on the table, press my shirt to my chest,
and declare, solemnly and without irony,
that I too could live here.