by on October 11, 2014 :: 0 comments

Spread out Syrah noir wide, slide up
wine glass side, stick in patterns

to the edge, like leftover phrases, words
lining the darkened bottom

of a writing drawer. Try to read
some kind of future in the tailings,

see a story finally written,
were there light enough, or life,

or snowy woods, or hawks
finding wind to soar and dive.

Well, maybe one more glass,
no past, no looking back,

a bottle, two, alone, black sky,
hope the only ending, no you.

editors note:

Vivisect vintage from vine; vie for existence or drain to the dregs. (More madness from Timothy, a silent move, on his page – watch it now.) – mh

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