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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