Last Night’s Wine

The early light behind dark tint of my sunglasses; a kind of lost late evening.

Birds having conversations, all well-travelled now, back to business.

A green can of lemonade on a wall like a monolith to another time, whose

fingerprints point to a figure you never once knew. The air is now warm, the wind

like hot air at the back of someone’s throat going over your mouth, into your mouth,

swallowed whole the electric feeling of everything in sight. Even the church stands erect.

 

Last night’s wine tastes bitter and sweet at the ridges of my tongue, and the noise echoing voices

of our talk, yours and his and his, like music, and I saw six eyes googling about with strange wonder.

They all knew one day they would fall off, if they hadn’t already, and if they had already,

they braced themselves, stiff-bodied like nervous passengers on a flight to Amsterdam.

There, in the night, we swam, hardly strangers, but we don’t know each other well.

I would fall in love with you if you let me. You only have to say.

 

© Michael Holloway