Though firmly constrained by
its impregnable container,
the mind is wild, and it can't help
but slip, on days like this
out through the gaze
through the eye's hibernal windows
and down below to where the whole body
might one day coat the landscape—
strange, the hard sensibilities
of solitude and safety
mingling with the sensual taste
of soft wetness and escape,
of wild excess,
then discomposure, then extinction—
it's the last good mouthkiss
from someone
we knew we'd never saw again,
it's some exquisite candy's
slow dissolving
in the dark palace of the tongue—
the whole of this
divinely-given binary
riddle of existence
comprises something Dionysian,
as pure raw milk—
safely contained
in its sturdy Apollonian bottle.
