“There’s a hint of -”
“Pepper,” you say.
“Exactly,” and the steward bobs
like those dipsomaniac birds
while I swirl, sniff, sip.
I tilt as if for shots.
Yay or nay, or checkbox,
or I approve, then a jet
of purplish juice
into the canister.
I pride myself on the subtleties
I hear in orchestration:
violas from within the strings,
they rise and then they sing,
they sing to me; and deeper
lines within a poem, drawn taut
and plucked, they ring,
they ring for me. But wines?
Why do they reduce
to juice?
You hold your glass. I
push mine back, watching
the clarity, swirling
the intimations of
all I’ll never know.
I swallow and wait
for the smooth finish.
I drink you in but
much goes wasted
on my palette.
No related posts.
Wed, Dec 2, 2009
Verse