Great kettles, mottled and held fast,
bricked into the city block. It will cling
to me, the wort, the bundles
of grain in a net sack. I am trailing,
my fingertips to your fingertip, my stomach
a gentle ferris wheel of no, then--yes,
each brown bottle tipped empty,
a spin on the rig, that dazzle
in the sunlight. I watch what I cannot have,
conveyor pace, those fingertips long pressed
against glass, that frothy craving.