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The Grapes of Wine

Posted to Poetry

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The Grapes of Wine

The blade of a deliberate kiss,
too aptly sweet and cruelly vague
is not of your tenaciousness.
My mind does nothing to evade
your disposition and dismiss

of times before last summer’s fall
when you- the hunter, I, the sphinx-
enjoyed the warm pervasiveness
of fluent smiles and facile pinks.
The comfortable and queerly all

that lovers couldn’t think to hit
was right and effortlessly mine,
but what would daunt me nonetheless
though, I, “a beauty steeped like wine”
is with a blink you would permit

a glass of staining red to fall.
Recidivists will oft resort
or rise into licentiousness
and now I seek a new cohort
coerced to sip a drink so tall.

A proper tease would wet her lips
and tilt her head; successful ploys
don’t address the tenable precociousness
that could secure more play with boys
above the space between your hips.

If I were poets’ farewell verse,
I would were I their parting toast,
I’d drink you ‘til forgetfulness
where what would fill me up the most
a wetter drink than you, the first.