The Gate

And nectar, which provides fair bugle for the feathered humming fowl,
At once removed, remains the pith of a flower.
Earth be protected from the prurience of life-
Thy golden sliver of renaissance persists between
Petals and air.
Such is the purfled gate whereupon wing and beak do twitter
Further searching and anon to golden water at no end.

Hence due it may be to pay homage to Bacchus
Who did have in the depths of his red-stained glass,
A bundle of pearls.
Into these depths 'scaped the bundled sea virgins
Filling his belly with disagreeable coil.
Let it be known that even the wine god, bastard of vine,
Lay immobile betwixt common medlar,
Seeking refuge among its cool verdure-

Hereby posing candidly impositions of desire;
At once, which is the flower that boast the nectar most divine?
Here the flower hath birthed a most treasurable serum
And, in turn, it hath flaunted thine serum dubiously so.
The hummingbird hath taken with fervid insatiety
Therein, 'tis not the flower that boasts
Profoundest sweet nectar,
But the blind captors.

And the birds are flying with much difficulty,
Oyster shells lay barren and exposed,
Bacchus curses his hands.
For in these hands he can not admire
With mind of that mingling
In which they are accused.
And to tempt oneself impetuously with slanted joys
Is to redefine humanity, mocking demi-god to god.

Who, I ask, shall consider thyself challenged
With one hand full of pomegranates
And the other, hard rubies?
Was it nearest today that I gathered,
It is only when one does require
This which nature provides,
That we shall defy indulgence
And be quite still, as she.