Poem 57 Revised

If time is your master I woul­­d pinch out the stopper and guzzle up the sour saturant
until our minds were free of limits and our limbs weighed well with their burdens.
If time is the price of passion, I might hoard away the barrels mingling of
grape seed and oak, exchanging them only for the moment best articulated
of love. If time is your currency, I would wander the streets co­­­llecting coins
in a long neck bottle until we had enough for one final sip to share. If time
feels feverish on the tongue, spit it quickly in this bucket, a taste should be
enough for the evening, surely too much would send us sideways. When time
could fill your belly and never be enough to quench your sorrow, come wandering
home ward, where the west winds bellow breeze to seize the surly­ soul.

—ECW 
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