Tonight’s Scotch Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; They toil not, neither do they spin. (Matthew 6:28)   Tarpaper hobos—holed socks who kip beneath— your faery rises to my nose from this, my emptied whisky glass. When beggars go a-dream they bare their teeth, but I have not been one of those for all my fancy can enact their case.   How close can any inner seeing run to catch a living not its own from whisky hints … or spider thread that glints in zephyrs from our steady sun? Is most far-thinking done alone on spindle…