Perhaps happens. All it is could be.
Another word for it would be—
maybe it’ll come to me—
Granted shape is just a phase. Granted form—
goblet, tumbler, bottle in the dark,
amarone and a body
clad in black—just comes between
to and from, from and to, abstract to
the touch, concrete as thought.
So it seems in light of these say
libations—in the light,
bare flicker, slight gyre
of their bilabials one icy eve.
Grape, grape, barbaresco, primitivo,
after such
anticipation the first sip nearly hurts,
a little bit, a touch,
like on certain liquids you could cut your lip,
the way of fluid having after all an edge

When the wine winds down,
nearly is nearby, the word is not to be.
I want everything, nothing included.


Brown-butter bread pudding with mulberries and milk jam
sounds like sculpture.
The heart is its own brain.
The heart pauses, then hesitates.
Something’s on the tip
of the heart’s tongue, the heart taps
fist to brow to jar
memory into place. Perhaps
it’s a name, the name is not Claude Muchmore, it is not
Javier Flores, it cannot be
Soso Kokynos, maybe it’s a place
near Verona, in the Rockies, on the edge of elsewhere.
The heart smarts
like a shin smacked yet again
on the leg of the couch, not a sofa,
not a settee or divan,
in the same spot,
damning itself
for its willed inattention to the world,
its faux velleity, so, so faux—
The heart thinks, I’ve heard this song
for twenty-something years,
the heart knows the lyrics by heart
(one night in Iowa, he and I in a borrowed car)—
The heart has hips and sways. The heart has lips and applies
its own pressure, its own logic, its own balm.
The heart acknowledges the dichotomy
between mind and body mind and body
fail to acknowledge
and in the moment
of so doing wrinkles and shrinks
to the size of a raisin, golden.
Thinking things is coming to not terms but blows.