The Tricks of Heaven

by Robinson Raju

The cup of wine
rubbing against her cheek
I can see
a drop caressing her lips
and overflowing the vale of my youth.
It fills my days
with an intoxication and a
desire that gnaws at my nullity.
I wish I could conjure spirits,
my own or some angel forlorn,
whose remnant I see
the stairs
of heaven and
of my home,
where I reach to find
the surge of my mind
dissipated, dead, demonized
for the love of her
that I’d devised,
to keep me patient
to keep me home
to reach the infinite,
but I uncovered some—
one I didn’t know.
The cup I saw there,
but where the hell did the wine go?


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