A plum dropped into the brim-full
hour of summer
and to keep the edge of time
along the edge of space
fate rippled over the barrel head.
I reached my arm down into night
and raised up a moon pearl
which spilled back into the barrel
so that the heavens could have a mirror.
To hold the rain
the barrel must be saturated.
To be full of love
the body must be saturated.
The barrel sinks into soil,
grows roots, attracts lichen and moss,
insects and birds, bats and snakes,
and at the height of summer
morning glories entangle the barrel,
creep over the rim
and grow back out
like life twice born.
Sometimes hanging grapes and leaves
are reflected in the convex mirror
of a brimming barrel, and deeper down
an idiotic Bacchus face looked up
having drowned drinking the barrel.