by williamkupinse

Plump stuffed sack of guts
and sundry fluids,
eyeless mystic ever
questing for that perfect
(A drop is never enough;
a flood, a curse of riches.) 

In the backporch gloom, I struggle
to sort you from your size:
apple twig the wind
brought, clump
of sodden grass cast
in a shoe cleat, careless
cigarette end. 

could never serve you whose
hermaphroditic accoutrements
you pack along against
apocalypse or the odd dry spell.

Drink deep but not too deeply
at life’s wells, you teach us,
your flesh a humped
finger of muscle, fleeing
with exquisite leisure
the groundwater’s swell.