Glorioso

Midnight ©2016 Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle

Why is it wine
returns in kind
what one expects of it?

I have seen the seagrapes
and wondered at their taste.
I could never find
their secret.

(The grand sun upon the sand
burns the coldest land
into submission.)

I have wandered deep
into the mine of no regret,
chastened the memories
of cold winds and colder arms,
forced (is it really in despair?)
into poses of relief.

I am a male in heat,
a dead heat that rises from the grave
and from the glass,
not crass but mellowed,
aged in oak,
and soaked in melancholy.