Horn Of Plenty

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licquor pours across all floors

it is not possible to become

intoxicated today when

bota bag bleeds and seeps

its blood-red vintage while

weary herdsmen weep

and skin afresh, hanging

hircine hopes on kids

gathering yesterday’s grapes

for fresh pressing

remembering to decant

old with old, the new with new

and both willing the carver

with every bone in their bodies

to gouge with due caution

adhere with common sense

remember libation to providers

and secure for all, in celebration,

that the horn has plenty

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