Fond of full guts, afraid of storms,
I wish I could split a wine skin
Laughing with the false two of you
Fictions from men whose bodies failed,
Who fought their way to some success
By the time they were near my age
And equally near to their deaths.
You proverb-belching paragons,
Verbose quintessences of greed,
Could, all cowardly, console me
As I consider what scares need:
The best of those who've resisted
Has been to distill and distill
The actual, recalled, until
Almost nothing left counts as real.