Here's poem two, by Annie Finch.
Revelry
Chairs root. Their trunks are runged with snow.
Curtains grow velvet thick, like bark,
in this warm landscape ringed with dark.
Is passion only revelry?
Voices believe words and move free;
lust moves our lips; blood fills our skin.
We bend alive around cup and cloud.
These are the hours to revel in.
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