They take one long and final breath so that
they may have some options to act upon: some act
of freedom—or on the freedom syntax brings.
Some act on one long note. Some act on two
—too many—short staccato ones. Some spring;
some cradle; some follow the flow of chi
as it flows through the copse or follow its footsteps,
to the timberlands, to the lakes and streams.
Some seek the fire in someone else’s womb;
in pity; in the cherries, in the rain,
in the world, to the woods, of the word;
and some drink the white wine in silence so it
won’t go to waste, the ladies so gracious,
the thunder so stunning…
We’ll serve the white wine, so it won’t turn to water.
The ladies will drink it,
so it won’t stain their lace doilies.
It won’t spoil their afternoon faces, their parties…
We’ll serve the ladies white wine so that it flows
like rain from the sky,
rain that washes the puddles of mud.
We’ll serve them that sky
till it tastes sweet, like pudding, like screaming.