I: Wine

What flows is not what flows

But wine from sight concealed,

Present spilling o’er lips

From barrel cork unsealed.

Agony! Of moment’s time

To pour from heart to lung,

Distilled to simple words

In verse’s twisted tongue.

Of vine and light that grew

the fruit of form to fill,

There lingers aftertaste

but lacks a certain frill.

In drip of character

glasses tipped to brim,

Imbibed from ear to ear

where thoughts attempt to swim,

The meaning drowns in drink

Of hint of sought intent,

But flavor cannot capture

What truly palette meant.

• March 2025