In dark-green swamps at night, wan phosphorescence
seems a damp womb releasing fireflies racing
between starlight, before dawn gives dew iridescence
and sunlight pours into constellations’ tracing
which we augment to paint porcelain with florescence –
the jade and topaz, lavender and pink, interlacing.

The wavelengths of this palette run together to define
not a dark mixture but the purest white light divine.

It takes a hearty sophistication to make the finest wine
from a lusty concoction heated in an angry brew,
dissolving from these ingredients what is essentially divine
in a digesting of the old, in a distillation of the new
from thin-skinned grapes easily bruised on the vine –
the ruby liquid produced by, but not just for, the few.

All of which goes against the grain of would-be drinkers
speculating about love with foam-head beer-hall thinkers.

The scintillating light in love’s eyes is not the amber hue,
but as burning coals, a shine, or red intoxication.
The shadows under those eyes may be ebony and blue,
but that heart could be experiencing a distinct inebriation.
The fiery wine coursing through those veins may be true
if that one would die gladly for union’s sweet initiation.

The saffron robe reflects the glow of the pure awareness –
vital breath, hot blood, cool tears, signal demur nearness.