the inverted chalice seldom drips

passed the burning bush of sadness
where the bleached grail has dried
and easy tears defy nocturnal dowsing.

where is your water now?

the forked tongue falls mute,
barren to touch or taste,
the lying ear to false alarm
has cocked a waiting pitch:
coated pets endear at times,
but stroking has its downside
in the slither of the night.

things change, so sadly surely:
weave a nausea from sandy shores
to the oasis of the storm-
can a saint preserve a lemon?

never strike more than your god has requested,
once should be enough-
else the desert will never recover
or provide a burning bush
to calm the pocked scirocco.

a dearth of beasts of substance
emasculates the sword:
await a potent trickle,
a rebirth of foreign gold
to strop the blade to true.

the red sea will part in time,
so sit and sit and sit.