Drunken Desert Ode
Let me lie awhile longer on the sands
of tenderness, sipping a dry Shiraz
and suckling at the supple breast
of paradise as succulent
blossoms blanket my blood-shot eyes.
Let me drown again in the red
life-fluid flowing from Christ’s flesh
quenching my thirst for immortality
for a few hours, until the sweet ephemeral
liquid dissolves into sustenance
for the flowers, and I too wilt.
Let me listen to the drizzling blossoms
letting go and waltzing with the wind
winding through the cacti and time
winding down with the metronome-
moon to a steady stream of stars spilling
down my cheeks like a river through this dust.
Let me weep not for Jesus or the fallen
stars and flowers, but for this empty bottle
left in the sand as my tombstone,
its only epitaph a lone petal
lodged in its neck, unwilling to give
to the wind’s sanded-down white knuckles,
which, unbiased and without mercy,
soften us all into the same dust.
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