There is no spirit other than the wind
Coaxing the pine cone that opens
In the dry sweat of the afternoon
Spent with the endless drip drip
Of the coffee pot and the drip drip
As the measures of various clear
And brown liquids complete each cup
And to look up after a rose chafter
Swaggers along the blue veined hand
And watch the emerald conifers nod and
The hair of the willow in the garden
Strokes the fronds of grass beneath them
And a glimpse is caught perhaps
Of a house behind where no house is known
Or the bare belly of a woman darting
Where no woman should be, could be known
And to follow down that wet green road
Well you might never return
But that maybe just the gin talking
Then again this is just the gin seeing
Genies in everything
