Somewhere behind the two large rocks
in the distance is a palace
where the sun hides,
a place where wine is warm
as it coats a nervous stomach.

How much does he dare, gripping a bison
by its mane, indulgence

not found in Paris or Des Moines,
the rush of midnight, the fire
that defiles the virginity of dawn?

Is the secret free of humility
like leaves beaten by rain
into the thin stream of decaying summer,
like the sky dissolving
warm night on a path to glory
obscured by the rough stones of time?