Dewdrops

My head is an oak cask
brining my brain,
my stomach a firebox
steaming my train.
My legs are grey fence posts
with rusty-hinged knees,
my body is stung
by occasional bees.
I have broken butterfly wings
for two eardrums,
a dripping tin downspout
instead of a septum.
My feet seem quite new,
I may have stolen them somewhere,
My mind an apocrypha,
still bound although threadbare.

The desert is silent as night falls again,
How did I get here, I wonder aloud
while kind little owls emerge from their den.
and I trip on the ribs of a very dry cow.
It only gets worse, they say
from here on out,
but I still have these dewdrops
to drink in the drought.