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.

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