Quite the contrary, you see the cup

“needs replenishing,” but wait

for someone else to fill it.  You say,

“I’ll count the ruby rain,” but quite

contrary, I tell you, don’t count on it.

It may pour, possibly tonight

intoxicating droplets will pool from clouds.

Even so, would refills sate you?

We’re contrary and dicker with our differences.

My cup is six sips down as yours,

but I’m febrile--so much yet to whet.

I see your neck as I swill my last

from this pretty glass. Behind you,

the moon snags a limb of the live oak

like a hangman, or, like a Viennese tart.