Lipped like cherubs, rung like roses:
these are the lenses your case encloses.
Neither half-full nor dourly sweet,
nearly not spilt as a vessel can be;
dearly not spent as a vessel replete
with trappings madescent, inwardly.
Complete, it seems, is merely a seam
set too snug to sum, two in-between;
reseen, at last, in that whirling pool
of passions promised, deluge in full.
No cup can’t spill, no time can’t tell
the kinds of places our hours till;
kin kindness is tasted, your deep well,
though your chalice you keep: thine own will.
God is thy portion and thy cup resplendent,
but whose name do you call to raise transcendent?