147 Astringent as wine, but stronger than any wine, My sips of your eyes are burning inside my mouth. My sips of your eyes are burning inside my throat To slur my wet paints with sleeves of my reeling joy. To smudge every thing around with my boiling paint, My sips of your eyes are burning inside my chest. To make me the falling jar, which is full with you, My sips of your eyes are burning inside my womb.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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