That girl is that–just a girl,
A pretty lass, no more, no less,
Herself a self and nothing else,
Whom, I, alas, have never known.

But barroom smoke and whiskeyed eyes
Reveals her form and recognize
A phantom often fantasized:

She stands atop a pedestal,
With elfin hair and Beatrice grin,
Ineffable, inaccessible,
An icon of Grace, or Mortal Sin.

No liquor, no water, this fire could slake!
The smoke then whispers, whiskey-smiled,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake.
Her eyes avert; she blushes mild.
“Sorry,” I add. “Uh, my mistake.”

I drink my fill, cough and stand,
Pay my bill, and stumble off
In search of bed, or at least dry land.

That girl is that–just a girl,
A pretty lass, no more, no less,
Herself a self and nothing else,
Whom, I, alas, will never know.