Powdered water


Dream a quenching love, the drinking 

a gambit akin to chess — first,

being poured into a narrow hall 

from some tall glass, a gauntlet, say. 


Not gantlet, two lines, men with sticks

beating thieves, lechers, liars 

running by. Maybe, a gimlet nearby,

tool to glide inside the pretty package,


bore a deep hole in the manner

her gimlet eyes stare back, fuel lust,

possess a luring, penetrating look.

No need for a gimlet, lime-laced drink,


nothing powdered in it. Essential,

however, a gimbal to keep everything 

level, on course, inspire a gamut,

range of thirst so complete


no gauntlet — a dare to gulp fast —

will make your thirsty beauty weak,

so lethargic she misses why granules 

in a sack could ever creep 


like a doe to the damp edge, 

get wet, blush, lie back, let slip 

a wish for something not powdered

to be stirred slowly in.

                               Timothy Pilgrim