Dark wine reminds me of you.
The burgundies and cabernets.
The tang and thrum and hiss
that spiral like Egyptian silk,
blood bit from a lip, black
smoke from a cigarette.
Nights that swell like cork.
This night. A thousand.
Under a single lamplight.
In public or alone.
Very late or very early.
When I write my poems.
Something of you still taut
still tugs still pulls,
a rope that trembled
hummed between us.
Hummed, love, didn’t it.
Love, how it hummed.