Glorioso

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.