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Powdered Water

Dream a quenched love,
gambit akin to chess,
poured into a narrow hallway
from some tall glass—a gauntlet,
say. Not gantlet, two lines,
men with sticks beating cuckolds,
lechers, liars running by. Also,
gimlet nearby—tool to glide
inside a pretty package, bore
the hole deep as gimlet eyes
stare back, fuel lust with a luring,
penetrating look. No need really
for lime-laced drink, gimlet,
nothing powdered in it. Yes, gimbal,
keep everything on course,
even, level. Inspire gamut,
a range of thirst so complete
no gauntlet, or any rapid-gulp dare,
makes the thirsty beauty weak,
lethargic, miss why granules
can lure a doe to the damp edge,
inspire thirst—strong desire
to lie back, dream a liquid gift,
wetness not powdered stirred in.

Timothy Pilgrim, Bellingham, Washington, a Pushcart Prize nominee and poet with several hundred acceptances by journals such as Seattle Review, Cirque, San Pedro River Review, Toasted Cheese, Windsor Review, Hobart, Sleet Magazine and Third Wednesday, is author of “Mapping water” (Flying Trout Press, 2016). See for all his poetry.

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