Infertile

Who is he that speaks of the sea
Without having tasted salt air upon his lips
Who gambles with bare dice and sleeps amidst foxes
With one eye open
Hogtied
He is no man who sings
In foreign tongues to the deaf
Brings to table the freshest kill already digested
And swears by his own soul
Without first weighing it against the blackened smog
Of a char-broiled countryside
No
He is a shadow
A siren’s dying breath
Petrified pasture beneath winter’s pallid blanket
The skin of innocent teeth
Bared in rowdy defense
He walks in vacancy and sleeps thinly at the edge
Of extinction
For all his tarry is vanity and all his vanity is
Infertile