New Wine in Old Skins

                              i. Spit

Wine jugs roll through envious streets
lined with lion-jawed locals whose
mouths, drier than smokeless fire, call
out to the East, seeking to wake
from his own shadow’s deep embrace,
          twilight’s sovereign prince of their

province of sleep, confident he
can perceive what falls on heaven’s
knees when dusk be(n)ds down with night and
dons her veil, dawn peeling off his
and rising from what drunk second-
          sight prophesies, lush minds’ eyes see,

that he might somehow retrieve what
light spilled in a tavern/prison,
dripping through its filthy windows
and emptying bars, thunderbolts
of life’s flickering filaments
          far brighter, and mightier, than

                              ii. Swallow

any liquor, its flowing in
that rush of intoxication
illumination brings, what this
town needs, this village whose footprints
feed the same path Prometheus
          himself had trespassed to free us,

and our minds, from having any
longer to hunger, with blind and
agonizing wonder, for what
the gods denied our ancestors,
no sip, but a gulp, from wisdom’s
          gushing cup, a sunrise pregnant

as first-love with fragrant kisses,
the blushing richness of which lifts
from out our paws, and palms, those thorns
meaning’s inevitable search
hurts, making unenviable,
          and that much worse, unquenchable thirst.