Happy Hour

They say the rock faces of Tai Bai Mountain
are stained from black ink Li Bai threw away in rage.

Now Bob writes of Mallarme’s first drafts
as a squid squirts black ink in his boat -
‘the darkest hour is right before the dawn’.

Questions of meaning and faith are two squirts
of brain ink drying on the swings
of a disused playground.

Soaring bop from Bird plays behind
bottles of Quink lined up like a cocktail bar
waiting for Happy Hour.

These words do an awkward dance -
I’m thinking this one out
on a laptop where the screen’s image
burns in autumn sunlight.