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Ode to Passion

O passion of infinite permitting, how you withstand

our humble drawings quick to sour,

well aware that—on the hour—every chloric

drop of will erodes your body still

until but dimpled mud remains.

How you know the scaffolds of our refrains

with leaden buckets painted gold—the lust to have

and to hold with rusted claws.

We lift you to our jaws with no intent

of stopping. We shudder at the sense

of you dropping into caverns

far more narrow, far bloodier in hue.

We guzzle you until our lips turn blue.

Until on razored rods our slick pallor falls

as time shaves off all that he can spare.

A mad dash for hair to stuff and

to stopper our endings—white rabbits

and red herrings, we stumble from the drain.

On your kind allowance, we fend off the feral minnows,

until your patience winnows and your bounties you reclaim.


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