238poem

June 29, 2011

There is wine and there is wine
that was grape waiting to be reborn.
Your hybrid puddling the bottom
of my glass is in-between unlabeled—
Nothing would please me more
than to weight the vines with sunlight
chanting happy songs of ok but this city
is tricky and sticks to my shoes like honey
when its shadows rise up to meet me—
Is it no wonder that your taste confuses?
All day we do things and sometimes at night
I continue doing them while you dream things done.
The successes we allude to during small talk
fit nicely into sun up and sun down schedules
that are blocklike compared to our curvy truths.
There are other things I could sensitively say
but the buck is in the bucket, not the bank,
and I don’t know where to cash my chips.
How’s that for a metaphoric I love you?

LOCATION: Buenos Aires, Argentina – Drinking a glass of very cheap wine before bedtime after returning from El Catedral where Marco and I danced tango.

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