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.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
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Gerry,
ReplyDeleteT'was a great delight to find your poetry comment box was inviting a comment; especially on the subject of good red wine. I think it was another Barefoot merlot,since the bouquet had to travel quite a distance. Shaken and stirred just a little, perhaps agitated but still breathing...Not a drop to be wasted however, as one is tempted the inhale the droplets caught upon the cork holding fingers:)
I do know my wines!!!!
Best Festive greeting from me to thee Gerry.