Peculiar sot, paddling at the monsoon—
the logs, the bellies of boats, tarpaper,
pork bellies spotted with white, and jugs
of wine, old water where white wines
should be—wine that spices the torrent,
pleasing the mouths that must falter—
gay deaths, all—new skins that burst,
that spice the flushes with black and bitter—
wandering ridges, crumbs to the coffee—
soluble homes, the daubs are running.
-2005
