The art of wine sipping is subtle.
The discipline, one glass at a time.
The vintage I speak of is this breath.
Was it your heart or mine that became
a cup for the other's lips?
Was I the host and you the guest,
or did you pay the tab?
All I remember is, the tip was
incalculable, but the server told us
to forget about it.
O Lord, we went reeling out of the tavern.
I think I said, "Here's my shoulder.
Now give me your arm.
My devotion to the path will keep us
both from stumbling."
In the light of morning, I can't imagine
speaking such words to You.
I even remember whispering,
"Here's my chest, with its
broken gate wide open,
Lord, I'll make sure you get home."
It's not my fault that a single sip,
a single inhalation
of your presence,
inebriates the Lover
and the Beloved.

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