i was searching the Beehive for answers
in the cello bathed sky light

i was roman with my first name,
a tawny emperor with socks

to match
the
ample shades
oozing from errant goblets.

if thirsty i am sure i could find my mouth
somewhere sucking on grape-vine.

and my hands plucking at the fish-bones
the songs to make the widows weep.

after all,
what is power but the slavery of sense
by something
i
sluice with imagining?