Rupert’s round of whiskey anchored me to the ground.
My gut a rioting tempest and my back on the stone seabed.

The kitchen ceiling bulb, less intoxicating than the television,
Glowed a waltzing green through the lampshade
I sincerely regret buying;
It hummed in B flat and soothed the storm inside.

Cold waters lap the floating ice caps
As the whales swim beneath the northern lights.