(on a burning compost pile)
I present to you a poem; strictest meter it has kept.
Where by you, the reader thinking, 'Is the author here inept?'
So I sit with eyelids closing, drearily my style sing
All the while I am burning here atop the compost ring.
High atop a mountain distant, Wednesday calls to me again
Asking simple me a question, 'How can you stand burning, man?'
If a dish of burning soil has, they say, a certain smell
Cast from humus cast to fire can it well be thought as well?
Pulp of paper, drop of leaf and insect, seed and woody stem
Shall be said to smell from fire as a rotten compost shall.
She is going to the kitchen, glass of water for to get.
'Can I bring you back, in passing, something equally as wet?'
So I feel my feet in ashes, feel my lashes growing beat,
Feel my head sink to the pillow like the fire to my feet.
Watching Wednesday climb the willow call my name into the sky,
Here atop the compost pile with my throat so parched and dry,
Asking for a glass of water as the burning sky rolls by.