The hair and the dress—
that’s a night’s drapery
at its darkest churned
into flames with sparks.
And under her eyelids
setting down those wings
in between the airy flights,
the Evening Star is pressed,
growing lavish in that bath,
and from such tender grapes
she pours a potent wine—
on a poetically potent path—
that goes by the rose, her mouth,
where all is sipped and grasped.
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