To Love the Pitcher Less and the Water More

In my mouth often trapped
Runs a lather acid-washing a
Yarn I’ve spun—danger dropped
Clotting dye; clothing I’d thought
I’d air once I’ve hung up
My pair—some kind of shout
Worn out under a sigh

In the south off the cataract
Beyond the king’s eyes, on a
Needle imperially fingering the
Sky, mercenary masons aspire
My legacy to find; each cloying
Digger needful of some time
Limiting Fame’s haul of mine

Chapped lips breaking tombs
Kissing too soon, the sun consumes
Workers prostrate at noon
Praying away their toil, oiling
Their souls to martyr down
My head’s soil and break through
Where we’ll come to drown

Oh, men: to love the pitcher less
And the water more! I’m the stamen
Whose stamina out-blooms, wets,
And perfumes you—sweat lain
On pectorals, petting all chests—
Oh, yes: the orchid without rest,
I’m just a vessel filled with flame

Whose tongue informs you, a spade
Frigging around to conform truth
To an aesthetic embraced by few—
Hieroglyphic tails pretense and wag
Knowing I know just what I do;
And so, men: raise a glass to the day
You’ll slow what river I run through.