Ball at the Moulin de la Galette, by Auguste Renoir
Love says, You cannot deny me. Try.
I say, Yes, you appear out of nowhere
like the bubbles in wine, here and then not.
Love says, Prisoned in the body-jar,
singing at the banquet. I say,
This ecstasy is dangerous.
Love says, I sip the delicious day,
until night takes the cup away.
Then I insist night give it back.
The light I see by never changes.
The water of realization is the wine we mean,
where love is the liquid and your body the flagon.
Grace floods in. The wine's power
breaks the jar. It is happening now.
The water of waking becomes the one who pours,
the wine itself, and every presence at the banquet.
No metaphor can hold this truth that knows how
to keep secret and when to show off.
