Neat

I’ll take life neat, no chaser.
Let it sting the uvula, let it burn
all the way down. Let it ride
acids like long boats
in a gale, bow on and held
in the flex of stout beams,
frenzied hands spilling wind —
crest to valley, spray to sun,
the wake mangled
in a rogue wave.

Image: Patrick Robert Doyle on Unsplash