WEST OF MINES
Sunset shuts this circuit’s door―
Six bottles verdant with life’s voltage.
Each chameleon-glass a half-amber;
Menisci quivering, abetting parallax.
Rivulets coalesce where vapour crashes
Against the cold. Snake-handled by gravity,
Their heads balloon with limping tributaries,
Then burst open, soft like a flower.
It is a game of numbers. Sum the polka dots
On both dice once your palm splutters.
Multiply by seven. We shall know the
Years left in us. Chance never lies.
Dami has sixty-three. Ah, goats will fall
In your wake! He empties his glass, belches.
Ola has forty-nine. He is balding, already;
A rim of froth frames his toothy smile.
Then, at a roll’s end, staring back―
On a pair of squares, white, unblinking,
As the sun bows beyond the horizon―
Two pupils, jet-black, fixed, glistening.