Harlem Wine

This is not water running here,

These thick rebellious streams

That hurtle flesh and bone past fear

Down alleyways of dreams

This is a wine that must flow on

Not caring how or where

So it has ways to flow upon

Where song is in the air.

So it can woo an artful flute

With loose elastic lips

Its measurements of joy compute

With blithe, ecstatic hips.