The Infinite Jest

It sinks in, with the musk of morning,
through the pores.
And mingles with last night's sweat,
and stains the sheets,
and stains the floor,
and stains the walls,
and stains the air, and you awake
husky and gasping.

It sinks in, that Bacchus has long since left,
with his minions and his friends, and
his share of the wine,
and left you in the cold docket of morning,
before the pale jury of the sun.