by jdavidcharles

the root in the ground lapping up the morning sprinkler water
or rain water or sometimes even the urine from the man drunk
on wine unnoticeably dehydrated from last night his arm idly
on the trunk of the drinking tree where the sap of the branches
spreads from bough to the very tip of the veins in the finger-thin
leaf falling to the ground by the arc of the blade pulsing with
the blood of the man extended by and through the trimmer
he bought from the hardware store where the woman works who
last night felt the coolness and wetness of the lover (the one who wept
through the morning over guilt because of the other liquid
he sunk his mortality into and died into) on her also wet skin
that may or may not burst forth into new and living flesh and water
singing praises that morning with each sip of her cappuccino she
bought from a barista who also served tea to the woman a flight
attendant flying right now over the Pacific who cheated on the man
who is pissing on the tree whose roots show no partiality in thirst
O self in blood! self in sap and semen! the pulsing in and out and
through the vein of all things sustained by those primal liquids
and juices that Thales sang of and the Spirit waited and descended on
the April showers that no living thing just or unjust is spared of
what sacrament is ripe in the veins and spills and flows forever out
the side of all things in the redness of blood and coolness of water
what wonder in our daily beads of sweat ever-new as the dew at dawn
what joy and wonder in our wine what sweetness in our wounds
and what possibility flows through the mouths of all thirsty drinkers!