Poetry and Poetics
yellow dusk that pours from clouds
strikes as wine laces the trees above.
Sitting alone here, holding up a glass
where wine's gold icy touch, the dust of men,
mists on the vineyards once all filled with men,
toiling around me, I will raise the glass—
sinking, dripping, curling from its frame—
until a sinking window holds this light;
then a dark mirror, then an old looking-glass;
till I look between the mirror and the men.
© by Annie Finch
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