Pouring the liquid on the feet of the Lord,

Sisyphus, he had a lot of coinage!

He’d been eaten by dogs older than him.

“Thou art long and time is short,” he said.

His loins were like a famous sculpture

Carried off from an island of the dead.

He called my name and paused to shake his violin

Then smacked away the calendar into the fireplace.

May joyously darted up my sleeve

And danced ten fingers as a breeze over my wheat.

He fucked me well near the pinochle table on the beach;

May bloomed out from under my cuff with regret.

Now his soft perfume like a young boy’s secret

Dances throughout my thick studies of the sunset.