will it be fine blood wine to coat my throat
and be sweet upon my lips,
or will it be vinegar, and all for naught
The cold glass against my skin uncrushable,
green and corked at the apex,
my fingers drape the nape of its neck
toying with the supple wax seal
Leave it on the shelf perhaps another 7 years
or seize it, let it ravage me, let the wave crest
the greatest pleasure is in that moment just before
the wine takes its own first breath
and then I find the bottom of the bottle my cell
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