As I water my heart with the fermented
grain,
It trickles down but not up–reaches
low, not high brains,
So that neither sense nor amour grows,
but only appetite for fall.
It seems I don't water my heart at a
watering hole at all,
and having for one night supported you
on drink but no food,
For a second, I wonder what I nourished
in you.
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