Incarnate

Two Heineken 16oz. cans tumble from my
pockets, ricochet off a brass rail, and

tumble over themselves on a glass floor.
Reminiscent of Chinese acrobats or

Russian ballerinas by way of Holland.
The bouncing sounds like spoiled children

in clogs stomping on a hardwood floor.
They wind-up napping on a maroon,

ripped throw rug. Sprawled out,
it looks like a map of Minnesota.

The beer stains mirror a Land O’ Lakes.
Rough waters ceased to keep me away.