44. The Beer
nose of horse hair | wet in a field and
running through mud | yeasty muck
wet hay and cat urine | hints of
rotten cabbage | sour but vegetal
the distinct scent of | ammonia
virulent diseases transformed | into
cotton candy | with a slice of pickle
an oyster lime slushy Gose | just
as the Germans used to do it
floating particles of rust | for the iron
scent of the fermentation | occurring
between toes | sweet against nasal
passages | suffused with marshmallow
and mango lassi | cilantro and
green onion | robust | they call it
German chocolate marzipan flambee
it smells like | the last dessert you
could not finish | extravagances of
ostentation | lurid recrudescences
of summer underarm | coconut oil
tongue of sweet nothings | cascara
chocolate chip | caramel pudding
mud bath | Vietnamese coffee
condensed milk | imperial triple
barrel aged stout | in mezcal
grappa | and sauvignon blanc
barrels | with black raspberries
dragonfruit | durian and toasted
black sesame seed | crisp and
unpretentious | with a soupçon
of the sense of making a saison
in the middle | of a hay field
with honeybees dropping | bits
of yeast into the liquid | clean
like river-washed gravel | but
earthy and chewy | weighing in
at 18.782% ABV | yet light
enough for a pint to just fill you
with yeast and honey and sunlight
the flavors | you have only dreamed
clear as water as if | it were water
nearly absent | yet demonstrating
the color of | each ingredient
a near tan for | the Mumberarl malts
a light green | from the Coborgian
hop varietal grown | only on
New Zealand’s sunless | slopes
the spelt providing | a golden greige
brown | and water illuminating
the beer’s overall invisibility
one variant | exhibits a raven
purple liquor | that glistens like
an African skink slipping through
the grass | each slosh of the beer
throws up a wave | and flashes a
separate metallic color | emerald
peacock blue | tourmaline
specks of gold dust | and uranium
each color promising a different
flavor | scent | and mouthfeel
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