Our wine cellar has no wine,
just floors grown cold in Minnesota winter.
Cold floors where naked feet dance,
limbs intertwine, hidden from prying eyes
and eyebrows raised in scrutiny.
Here lips touch in an innocent but guilty
life, beginning but dying
to the sounds of Miles Davis
slowly seeping through the cracks in the door,
through the chatter of those who have lived no more but
in this moment lie resurrected.
Here our young lovers grasp for something:
the heat of each other's body,
intoxication in a world devoid of drunkenness.