It may have been the colors of shapes,
or merely transformations in shades
made me think of Miró’s creepers,
gave me the sprawl of inebriation.

Six forms live on canvas. Still
three in upper space— a blur.
Dancers underneath loll— purple
frames in drunk repose.

Long robes of wine recline in grass green
regions of the past. Sides like glass—
slippery, offer little footage or rest—
creepers overcome by stupor.

The creepers— essence floats above rooms spin—
walls careen— in the party of Bacchus.
It is a dance slow, formal, utterly human
in tragic-comedy.

Drinking like creepers of indigo flail our limbs, fall
down to earth while our minds soar—uncontrolled
in unspeakable regions, giant vultures,
Flash floods in a canyon,

Young gods on a precipice— our thoughts,
veer off, hearts split open— unable to contain
contradiction, fullness, and the pain.

We are left with blue and green.