in early morning,
though outside the window clusters
in all colors. Better
sensed in the evening—dusk and after.
When she would be seen walking, tending
those of the tossed bouquet.
The nose of this wine,
vanilla and plum. And all the words
spoken to clamoring glasses
then emptied.
Those found drying,
hung from the mantel, browning.

That rhythm
and fluctuation.



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