One Way To Put It

He found his private store of magic not too long ago:
before he’d found it, he was subject only to the random
pull and to and fro of puffs of it, soft shafts of light

and color from some unreliable diffusion of a source,
radiating a near imperceptibly faint broken course
of calligraphic line: too evanescent for him to apply to it

the precious pronoun: “mine.” But then he happened on
an open, very large clay jug which, every time he neared it,
would begin to glow and grow; the closer he would

come, the more excitedly the urn would churn up
its rainbow conundrum: like a lover who cannot restrain
his phallic ardor, this considerable pot would pulse,

get hot and loom the larger till, when he drew up a ladder
to investigate more closely its strange pumping art,
and looked deep into its expanding heart, the thing

would veritably sing: ejaculating joy as he reached down
to take grand handfuls of it home. He now goes
back to it like Englishmen return to Rome.

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