Sink your hands into me
like potter's clay between fingers
alabaster cool.
I am fire. The poet in me calls
the light moves you. Passion is
our bread, words become fine
wine sipped slow from a chalice.
The curve of the vase
I am the gypsy in the mask
Where are the mirrors?
Will I become the Delphic oracle
kissing through glass?
Muse6165@copyright.com
Posted by poetry/muse6165
at 2:08 PM EST
Updated: Monday, 01/03/2005 9:27 PM EST
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Updated: Monday, 01/03/2005 9:27 PM EST
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