To speak of Distillation this instant
would be stupid and cause madness and loss of limb
to who may be fixing what needs six years to find rest.
Vine-tressed, the vessels are to store what of which ore taken
from ground or grave wherein lay a heavily gold-toothed guru
who told you in his will you will take out from him said gold
which becomes a new monkey to put up with.
It says not much but how to and when
you will be able to know.
First, strike spaces in casements not meant to screen
as all mannered pest fly through. You are
needful of these gaps which allow moonbeams of each degree
to touch you who is so unused; you must in sleep take visitings,
be pulled as towards their rut-rocked surface source.
You may go closer to the window. There is no glass in the frame.
It will be who wakes with a taste of special metal each morn.
Who was alive only when looking for the source.
Who was dying and, hard black-biled inside, had to hit back.
Neither slow to takeover nor quick breeding inside
this knowledge of instants uneasy as amputees
are to take away from their new ex-limbs.
And softly spoken as red worn by a sleeping babe;
dreams to him are livid though he is not allowed to say
what holds him to his ritual. He stains new if old clothes taken away.
And inches inside which tick each upended history to tell
who to hold this hand you have out to
catch motion off one moment you think meant for you.
Copyright © 2011 Ish Klein
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.