Appetite

Wine

86 Wine slips in a bottle the language of the earth deep from the vine’s roots twining its redness, tannin of grapes’ skin sucked out of the sun. The wine sleeps by increment of untouched dreams revealing to the palate seasons that passed over its head, autumn vinous to its last colors. The wine holds them under my tongue: auburn leaves, ruddy apples in the garret, taste of a sweet Vidalia, a linger in the forest, leathery smell of dry Ceps. Tendrilling curtains of green, vines grow over the strumming wires. Grapes hang heavy full of sap of envy they will fall back crushed in the press, a juice green and quick as a young fox. It is only later it wises in the vats, wine our tongues untwine. We drink till it tickles our blood and gullets, old medieval Cockaigne, Jesus’ miracle revellers play in reverse as later in the midnight’s alley we make water of our wines. ...