Of the Cup

I must tell you,
quickly-
as the rind cracks.

I'm an internal
drunk.

[ferments within]

The world
gave me thorns
and I bury them...

secret haircloth,
inside-out of the coat,
deceit of the smooth
body of rose.

I am ashamed

of the cup
that contains

but never
imparts;

of the ground
rich with root,

yet, refuses
to flower;

of the night
rolled in bundles

and how
it recoils.