Whatever Your Glass May Be

The feeling you get when your tongue is wet

just once or twice

not three times yet,

and the hollow in your chest

it begins to condense, around the point within.

A jittered sensation, anticipation,

in the chest a hollowness begun to expand

to rid of reason, logic, fear and doubt,

the sense of self and all that is man.

Bring fifth and sixth and seventh and tenth,

and into the brain it pushes a dent:

the pour-hole, the spigot, faucet of the soul

pouring itself into a vastness unknown.

Eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, twenty:

the emancipation of the chest’s confines,

the wholeness and freedom and innocence sublime,

of a swirling forever teetering laughing round,

only to find:

the virility electric

desperate to break forth,

dependent on a constant source,

is the soul’s real bind.

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