Another Shot

In the hexagon shadows of the old barn’s shed. The peony-topped steps go blow by blow, one and then another.

The lopped-off hurries. This breed of moonshine. Four shots from a bottle and nothing’s the same. Triple the score, and everybody’s tipped off, and the drips from the eaves puddle — and it seems harsh, somehow, or perhaps that’s just jaw-dropped scorn ringing through evensong’s pull.