From your heart, a wine that sobers

An overtone of musk and a sweetness,

Almost piteous, that lowers my knees

And my ribs as if they were only strings.

There is a look in your eyes

That suggests diamonds have

Cut away your valuables,

The look of a thief apprising

Treasures he cannot possibly comprehend.

There is a miser in your hands

And he does not touch me tenderly.

His breath is icy, his accouterments bald-faced.

I know that he does not desire me

But still his bare knuckles drag

Over my impatient flesh

As if to silence and indeed he does silence.

The moon has a crude look

Like wadded up bits of paper mache.

Tonight she is uneclipsed and her scars

Are showing like embers in a furnace.

I pray to her as we feast, indulging

On intimacies, wholly inadequate.

I have 2 parties this weekend so I am not sure if I will pull off a poem a day and I may not be available for comment. Please forgive any delays.