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.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.