the rain. the condensed gray. and then the wine.

moon—

I’ve opened the door

for you.  But rain.  Rain

and the breaking apart

of dark that stays

dark.  What would the sky

look like if I could see

it?  From this floor

 I can only guess

at day, an ink wash

across paper

but listen: the thunder and wind

and what dripped

through the ceiling, it's caught

now in a small bucket.

—It's rain I want to drink

after all these early days

because the door is wide 

to you and you

not there—

I’m a different sort

of thirsty now.

Maybe I’m on the wrong

side of the world.  I know what's obvious.

the Mevlana and Li Po tell me

 how to be

about leaving.  Breathing

out.  Bowing to the bowing

monk.  Catching water

the winemaker turns

to wine.

Is there a moon-wine moon?

A wine entirely of you?

I want to hold it

in the cup

of my tongue.

I won’t spill a drop.

Trust me.  I’ll hold it for so long

that swallowing it

will be a new distilling

and once n my blood…

well, only you

 and I can know,

only you

and I