Drinking Partner

Perhaps, drunk with my death,
Yet death my drinking partner,
Passed me every refilled cup,
Every tankard foaming after.

Death who did the yeasting,
Death who farmed a barley,
Soul-beer for our feasting,
Prone to darker parley.

He drove a Harley-Davidson
And dumped me on a porch,
His wiry eyes were gnarly,
His pupils held a torch.

Each morning his reversing
Equipped me for his bar,
And though he kept me burning
I felt those rains afar.

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