One tepid sip of red wine
then a third.......
How quickly it changes,
that aching in all the veins,
that long virus of the unreal,
fever of her unheard laughter...
All those places I have been
that do not exist but are ripe
with a scarlet hour of sequins
sparkling and new smells...
All those pieces of encounter
that could never fall into time
require only three sips of wine
to sink beneath my breathing.
Then deeper into this bottle's velvet,
to make a ritual of obscurantist night.
Yes, to sing a silent wordless hymn
in unison with a cold winter dove.
I now tip an invisible felt hat
toward an untouchable smile,
curving, fading on foreign lips.
I tip my hat of no known color.
On this canvas of a distant angel,
I'm pinned like Jakob saying "uncle."
And take the role on with aplomb --
wisecracking, raconteuring uncle.
Ah...it's almost Christmas time!
I'll don a charming Santa suit
and click my heels for chuckles.
And make a dream inside a gift,
a box that hides a scene of snow.
But this is all too much for drinking.
Such thoughts now sink on swallows
below the surface of some old sea.
Uncle must sit and pour his minutes,
no longer thinking of brilliant corals.
He shall sit and breathe a rhythm
of gratitude for a splendid “niece.”