Here she goes, from Issue 64-65. A toast, then, to Light:
Anacreontic
Polish the glass and heft it
bereft of what has left it,
ruby fluid consecrates
fleshless remnants of the grape.
Pith and pips and strangled stem,
crush of juice, a hint again
that we must cease with whining,
for grapes are yet divining
twisting paths down to the ground,
burying fury, dampening sound.
Perhaps we reap that which we sow,
but none escape the reaper’s mow.
Bury the groan, bottle the tear,
have a nibble at my ear….
Polish the glass and heft it,
Refilled with what has left it.
Darkened vessel, smoothly slide
the burgundy that burns inside.
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