Goblets
In a melting pot,
into the wind,
bearded snow-flakes
tumble and blend.
In a Wichita banquet
the legs are erect
to a taste of new
flesh and warm wine.
In that cave on the lake
there’s a pillar, a stake,
that leans with the breeze
ever-rising.
In a goblet of rust
at the highest, gold peak
to a sun we can cheers
and the moon butts in.
In a rattle of staves,
decorated with shell,
salt shines the silver,
infinite grim holding.
In a melting pot,
into the wind,
into fleece
and for getting.
