Whether kept for ice,

a cup of it, a cold, porcelain cup,

or tide-ploughed onto coasts,

or doctored and left a juice,

a cream, some alcohol and juice,

whether altered, or polluted,

or bottled in arteries to

carry one's life, and said blood,

or lifted into the sky and then

dropped and thought essential,

or blight, or a blessing, or

romantic or natural or pretty,

or a cell for hydrogen and oxygen,

 

I still don't like it on me.

 

 

 

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son.  He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay Publishing) is forthcoming in early 2008.  He tries hard.