The Grapes of Heaven - The Wine of Wolves
0 feed me the grapes of heaven, from your
mouth unto my mouth.
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Snowedness.
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Green tea, a red caress, in a bamboo grove.
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4am, cold ghost in my ear. Skin cries for
lucent raptures, sapphires spilling from the
sun.
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Silver silk of nymphs and apples.
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An anguished metal face, weeping scarlet tears,
stares deep into the sun. How quick the feast!,
it whispers to the wind.
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0 feed me the honey of winter willows; from deep
in your hives of gold, feed me the light of
willows.
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I build scaffolds of snow, that I might
climb into yet another childhood.
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Dead leaf, dead hour. Ice and lead wines, a thousand
carafes. Heading into the plumblue horizon, a hand
full of silver dots for the micronights: I am giddy
with winter suns, the green spittle of nymphs in my
mouth.
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0 stars and birds, how quickly you are gone.
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Here, seeds of a dead light, a thousand autumns.
Thy sky inside me calls to one streaked with rose,
and by a rose caressed.
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Between Saturn and the Sun, I craft the
morning.
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I will follow your footsteps, ghost, across
lightyears of sleep and I will follow your
hair's silver lamp, ghost, to where the deer-
shadows are burned into the snow.
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Jesters raging in their bells, trashing
lutes of gold, lilies of pearl.
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Between sky and sky moons of Sunday fall.
Silence by silence, it is all snow, infinity,
waxwing.
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Who has drunk
the wine of the wolves?
Who has danced
beneath their stars?
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Only the evanescent lives forever.