by Matt Schumacher
The autumn night is vaporless on the lake.
The swelling tide could bear us on to the sky.
Come, let us take the moonlight for our guide,
we’ll sail away and drink where the white clouds are!
astride golden mountainsides,
they elude gravity in hiking boots.
soaked to the socks with halcyon malt
and mount hood hops,
they defy fluid dynamics,
bounding on liquid clouds.
effervescent as pineapple lambics,
they glissade up pale ale trails,
roam meadows of foam.
following in vintner’s
eclipsing tipsy sherpa’s paths,
they zigzag up switchbacks like drunk yaks
to summit vast shastas.
they enjoy the olympian view
from the vaunted everest of brew
they’ve managed to consume.
these idlers lean over the valley,
laugh like li po
over the land below,
listen to elation echo.