Friday Sonnet: Silver

No wine these grapes of hurt set free,
No coin is bartered for their taste: my lover,
My friend, you do no longer look at me…
The forging of my fantasies is over:
It’s false I only need you for the mintage
That through my verses (some say) speaks the dream
Which moulds and casts all currencies of language.
I only am a coin lost in a stream,
Which sheds a thread of rust into the flux.
And by that rust they call me poet. Where
Does water end? Where is it she conducts
My rust? And when will I flow where you are
The palm bent concave, like the holy cup,
Which comes amid the reeds and picks me up?...