CALAMITY

The small splash domes a force field,

splits a rift, the wild dogs on one side

 

& us on the other.  The moat is tiny,

but efficacious.  Attackers can lay siege,

 

but we will toast them.  They will not starve

us out.  The slow burn strips graffiti

 

from the day, reveals the bricks still holding,

lifts us above disappointment like a mother

 

raccoon, dragging us high to the secure crotch

of an oak, trouble upstaring, reduced & clawless.

 

Tilting yields a blessing, transubstantiates

sawdust into blood, raises the dead.  Sipping, I

 

say a prayer, thankful I have reached this

place, the harbor of this bottle, tilting.