Touch
I give way to substance
the poem that delights the eye,
I linger on the full-flavor
of moonlight
Never will a poem touch
the mind in such a way
Love flames do not deceive me;
(wine pours in endless streams)
Like the first suffering,
I accept and breathe
Don't stop to think, but drink
from the sacred cup; the prisms
of light, the heavens , the moon,
and November's harvest
Deborah Russell © 2000
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