A spurt of wine when the ripe cork is popped
leaves bubbles of taut blood on soft skin ridges
moistly duck webbed between a gaunt thumb
and a forefinger clawed pale for joy uncorked.
To lick the red is an ancient terracotta art thus
now splayed and missed most royally by minds
darkly trained to draw in lines concisely black
when the twisting silver helix turns to extract:
some joys beyond the known taxonomies live.