He daily commutes to work on the wings of a moth 
who is inebriated,
and sips his drink from a bluebell 
that is with liquor satiated,
then calculates his sums on a papyrus 
with a quill whose ink
is the darkest wine that Gascony had fabricated.

His weekend is a six-day break 
on the shores of a reservoir,
a Scottish distillery’s grounds,
whose breezes are with whiskey impregnated,
a canopy of intoxication
for a man who has abstained for 86,400 seconds
from dissipation.

He sleeps in the heart of a poppy
that is with opium inundated,
and dreams of houris in Elysium
with flagons of nectar
that the gods had recreated
for the blessed who are with spirits consecrated.