Arc the heart as if the moon: like bow for arrow,
back for sky, root for earth.
The crescent bowl, to hold what is needed;
to pour the liquor love to stave the high of
the lie, the poison one drinks sucks dry! which brought out
such sorrow, gone
rampant across lands.

O’ morrow do lower, do rise!
As if night was but another form of light.
Cleaving the dark, the day,
both but lovers, both just desires within each other.
To look upon such beauty with swoon
—wandering heart,
see yourself as a crescent moon, cradling, blooming, slipping, far.
Drink and pour the fire that is love, run endlessly to above!
‘til your feet become wings and wine.