A Near Name

A name keeps closer
than good deeds, which spread
like leaving homes behind.

A time is set aside
to sift with scales
so even when tipped
it still stands, called—
The horn is lowered,
its tip almost touches
the underground.

A cup foams with wine
pours out like oil in wind
and the damned drinks
to its dregs, a toast
to what never was.

From a man who hears
another toast resounds
and something good
from the horn is found.

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