Its ambrosia-water currents
From a sloppy mechanic down
My chin, congealing inconveniently
In my tamed shock of a beard.

I ignored its fibrous stem when
I picked it from that orchard
Just outside of the City Proper,
Indeed, dismissing where, precisely,
It had grown. And now, of course,

I excise chunks of its core,
And, sometimes, God forbid it, a
Wretched seed, black, hollow,
From its damned beatific nucleus,
Without any care but for my
Clean and sealed incisors.