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Poetry: Metaphysics

 

 

The vessel is too small.
The wine runs over,
the rich colour of rubies,
of garnets in blood,
the endless possibilities
for contained joy
spill across glazed tiles,
sparkling and deep at once,
taking on new hues
with each inch flooded,
creating unnamed rainbows
still beyond the artisan's brush.

Give us a cask!   Still
it does not cease, filling
available space and
straining the slats,
dribbling through the wood,
staining it darker than age,
testing the metal, and,
finding it imperfect,
wrapping its amplitude
around the weakest parts.

Where is another vessel
into which we may channel
this excess?   Find us a cask,
lest we lose this limitlessness,
and be forced to live in thirst.
 
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