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To wait and bathe; vainly. In green milk.

From pastures new.

Pasteurised after drawn, milked heartily, from teat, of old.

A soured expectation is a travesty.
A moving travesty, still, compliant
to, and, of, gravity.

Many mighty bumps,
have been heard, thump,
after the quelling, of a drying udder.
Which had offered, gilded milk,
to own. To drink. To suffer.
An imbecile left sodden, in gallon
after gallon, of liquid fool’s gold.

And, yet, greener around the gills,
while the teat is tickled pink, laughing-sick,
what was meant to be, bullion,
turned a curdled, viridian.

The essence of what
was meant to be glittery, be golden.
But, instead, it is not.
It is new, pastoral and novel –
making a rich man all the poorer,
making a man of great-
standing; kneel and grovel.

Don’t let dreams,
of the plumpest,
bovine,
make your keratin grow thin,
or, nightmares,
of unquenchable justice,
lead you to barren,
vinyards, yielding,
no wine –
remember; the cherubim know Him.

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