Monday, October 11, 2010

Blackberry Wine

The moon in octagonal windows, twin portholes,
passing silver over her half-the-couch-long hair.

All evening, she bottled wine, now she sleeps,
her face a figure's on a prow. It must be that in her dreaming

the house is a sailing vessel filled with the scent
of blackberries. The ship lifts anchor, the tide is with it,

the wine of her is beginning to flow -- and she is leading
the ship, giving it life, she is brewing the wine.

The cache of ripe berries is stirred and crushed
in boiling water, the mixture strained and stored,

the juice poured into bottles and fine cloth fastened
over the glass mouths, and the juice collapses its structure --

all as she sails out into endless scent and transparent
purple-black gloom. And it must be that in her dreaming

she has searched for and found the ship's lost helmsman.
If she awoke now, she would find her hair wine-damp,

and find the one she allowed to stand within her
was one within whom she herself had always stood --

the two of them out under the full sail of the invisible,
in the moment of the wine steering through the wine.

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