the spirit glass

the spirit glass
sits broken now
in spirit, as 

the drink is fixed.

This broken drink 
was perfect once. Oh, 
what became of all of this? 
In swimming ink and dimming
light, a fiery sting lies dwindling
in blood and throat, a choked-out 
prophecy. Specific as to what,

not saying when, 
with this and that (but
mostly this, in deluges
- and then a dash or spritz of thus
and such, for color more than
sin) poured in per wish
by measured dram: 

it is fulfilled,
as it was spoke. 

Just so, by dam
the drink once broken 
now is full. Is fixed, is
flush, is pleasurable. Is 

gone! Like that? What hey,
what how?

With broken spirit,
let's allow. 

So fill to me
the spirit glass
and set me up
a pedestal,

You’ll see how well
I balance then.
And if you can,
please tell me later
how I fell.