To Yourself Even as you enter, The room Hums And the music Flows. Even as you enter With your Disturbing steps. The bottle in your hand is Still warm from where You last Touched It, droplets of cold Trickling onto your knuckles. You Can almost Taste The hand-print. You sit down, take in The taste from your Hand-printed bottle, and Watch the private poets Make love In their corners- they have alcoves Of taste, in tune to The flow, The flutterings. You soak in a Sea of Sound, remedy to your Heart and hands- the Salt is sweet, pours Into your ears like poison, Touches your tongue In honey dew Drops. The window is open, and guitar strings Flutter under player's Hands. He Plucks his last Chord and you Leave with your bottle, Satisfied.
