Finding himself bending over a muddy, watery ditch
his mind reels, and simultaneously from his mouth pours
the filthy water he had drunk hastily, what his mouth thirsted
but his stomach could not accept.
What had brought him to this place? Some small breaks
in the vessel of salvaged words, a fragile wine-skin grown
old with age, burdened down with too many memories
even now diminishing, a descent, step by step, away.
Away from the room shared with a wayward muse. Her
comings and goings predictable, but never too far nor too long.
She delighted in the play, the palace of poetry she designed
but he built, stone by word by revelation by default.
She cannot win, nor stitch new wine-skins, glue together
those broken vessels. She plays no virtuous role for him,
but mere distraction from the work at hand. Even
as he gulps again at the ditch, yet sickened and unsatisfied;
Still, however impoverished, a wish for her return.
To all my Gentle Readers, I wish the blessings of the abundance of enough. . .