I fancied myself a sponge
scrounging the secret of space
from the mortar
of the universe
counterpointed
with sequined constellations.
I fancied myself a sponge
soaking the spirit of earth
from a honey nougat spring
in the open orifice
of a sweet fig.
I fancied myself a blotter sponging
from the prickly pear seedlings
a dewy cascade
like frost
in which acutely
azure rays
of stars
narrow down
and focus.
And yet my lips
are parched
and there are times
when I bemoan
the wilderness
of my soul’s implacable thirst.
And gall of vinegar
is thrust upon my lips on a reed
to slake
my thirst.