06 February 2009


841
If prose were possibilty
The words might trickle Up
To topple at one thought or two
And fill a smallish cup.
A simple vessel would suffice
To hold a liquor odd--
Of sunlight or eternity,
For toiler and a god.
Intoxication with what is
Unseen by daily eye
Is possible's distillation--
Sensibility to descry.