Is there a home for the wayward traveler ?
for the weary minded rambler?
for the mosquito-bitten, flea-ridden Magellan?
who seeks a piece in this world
peaceful and pleasant?
Where a talent for tongues curries real salvation
and the tasting of wine – grander than occupation
Where one saddles next to one – intimate and naked,
tasting the other his fruit, free in libation
and devour – entwine – the history of a million mothers
with a mouthful of her flavours,
refined in her daughters.
Where life gives lay to the daedal hues of night
Where ferment and fragrance foments forward delight
Where Jove’s blood brings blessings in dark, deep reds
Whereupon flowers find fertile favour with Nysiads
Where all pipe the tune – ‘tween the lips, we whistle
“Pistol to pistol; petal to petal;
Pistol to petal and petal to pistol”
Writes every traveler
– variations on an epistle –