Books
Enough beer in my sails and I will declaim
till the proverbial cows fly over the gate,
crash land in the witches' fat pot of broth.
The president will laugh, my (non-)daughter's
headmistress will lift Bluebeard's hatchet
with a glint in her owl's eyes, fluff out
her white tail, go on to catch Vikings mid-raid:
pointer, blackboard. There.
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These cascades will bloom, sense slither
from non- into history and back through many
ale-blown tales, myths, deep truths in there
somewhere. The drink, you think?
Is it so hard to liberate what lies at the root
of all Magic Trees – without literally digging?
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Yet now its skeletal sky-bound fingers
can only be found in books.