I see how you are shaken
by a mad fever, Dionysus.
You tremble in the moonlight's
gleaming nectar as does a new,
loose-limbed fawn, heady
with a foreign ecstasy that runs heavily
through your veins.
Your dance is a bright and glowing
beast that rattles the world to its bones.
I can feel it: the stirring storm; the spark
scuttling just beneath the earth; the violent wind
that scrapes soil from its gaping mouth.
Oh! How the night
is a-quiver with wanting
when you sing. In the distance
a cricket scrapes together its wings; strikes a low hum
in its paper-thin breast as it wrings rivers
from the clustered bodies of grapes. The stars
turn violet-flamed in such dust: they are vineyards
obscured by the pale, illuminated clouds
that crawl along the horizon.
As a sickle moon sinks
I see you framed
against dawn's rising light:
your body made
into an altar;
your every fingertip
tasting of frenzied song and