The olives bobble just a bit -- a bit
Of gin, a sip of wine, a glass half-filled
With eschatons. At seven, I commit
To second drinks, to second-guessing spilled
Composure: nails half-chewed to skin, a taste
Persisting just a speck, the gentle quicks
Like calluses with moons erased, encased
In lone and level skin. I start to pick
At instinct, flicking glass to ascertain
Its provenance -- mere sand, or crystal, pure
As snoozing three more times. The clocks attain
A semblance of cognition; they're demure
At first, but then assert themselves by beeping
At random times, and never while I'm sleeping.
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