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I Dipped My Finger in the Wine

I dipped my finger in the wine; the glass trembled.
There was nobody to see and tell me
Not to do that; there was the silence of
Loneliness. I wrote a few lines on the rough surface
Of the wooden table. I traced every nerve and knot.
A rational being I am not.

I am the poet that wanders in the mist
I am the sun that burns through the blinds.
When the moon dimples in the sky
The warm breeze from hot lands that
Warms my skin and unfreezes my heart.

I dipped my finger in the wine; the glass trembled.
The meaning of the way my life lay in
The lines that would be wood-absorbed; the words
That, transiently silent, would dry
Unseen, unheard and unspoken

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