(This poem is continuation or response to Santa Margherita)
I couldn’t tell you if I’d even remember the name
Of two I’d tasted last, or any varietal offhand,
Or bank or branch. I’m restless and
Regretful at years and honesty withdrawn.
Or held (at least I made it under Forty-five!)
The resulting muddy terror, after, was the only
Thing I’d feel for years; and I’ll not TOUCH
The fact or fragment of a thought I had once:
Sometimes a lack’s a thing.
Do I remember the last pour and glass
Differently than the first time I had what filled it?
In filling glasses, have my pupils become flimsy with
Exhaustion? Here, I’ll admit, I have survived, ignored
The call to come to it; so if that is not success, then call it
Thus. But a failure would not have stayed so loyal to his own
Mediocrity, and in this I could fashion myself a hero.
It’s fascinating what stays scalded into the flesh we’d
Long forgotten. Looking back is tarnished fragments,
I still can’t balance the weight with which I
held the lowest volume of my life. The
Scales become not so forgiving though. So, fitting. Imagine
Choosing to eschew the meat and put your finest lines
In the appendix. I’ve never been a stickling editor, molding
The past into an urn with revision and deletion.
Looking back, I recognize just how quickly this became, then was,
And moved on to completion. You were left with piecing—something
With an errant breath of putrid negligence (at night sometimes
I watch the pools of Cabernet behind his head, and wonder
Just how tannic it would be to vint such an absolute grape).
And the time I spent looking for phone booths was an escape.
The ruse unravelled long ago; I’ve been abusing tape.
I’m not the savior of this story, or truly of this page;
She was the one embroidering the cape.
I’ve now lived long enough to understand the gravity of
Life, and the severity of its meaning. The victors aren’t left standing.
They hunch somehow, or crawl, under the weight of the
Truth they carry, hidden; sometimes stuffed in pockets,
Or in the lining of a dress, or hair. Or in the pieces of a photograph
We crop out to avoid the embarrassing explanation, or aching details.
If she’s the screw, then I was always corked.
Once in a while the filter is a necessary tool.
The parts that get too much to admit to everyone else
Stay stuck on replay, repeat until there’s no way to react to them
At all. What then? You’re left with happenings; endings preceded
By an empty list of dry adjectives. You cannot edit, only interpret.
In passing, I do get the subtle sting of citrus on the nose, but
I’ve come to find a soothing calm in the presence of some sediment.
Well, with that settled somewhat (somewhere the back of
My mind is beside itself with how the blackberry overpowers the hue,
But blueberry is perfection on the nose). With a swirl, I sense the spice of
Cinnamon and clove, or maybe marjoram because why not?
Established hints of some paprika blend. The body is significant, and
Though it coats my tongue, it seems to permeate (but out).
I’m oxidizing now, this rust I nurture and tout (and only to myself.)
But since we’re cordial, I admit that anything too floral makes me wince,
Pinot grigio stands fine on its own, and I can’t stand the fucking taste of—
quince.
