Blackberry Wine

Back before uni­ver­sity des­cen­ded upon us like an autumn fog of Know­ledge and all our dreams were con­sumed by Learn­ing Things, Raphael and I made black­berry wine. Since then it sits in the chai room and bubbles occasionally.

Black­berry Wine
bottled whimsy
from a bright and flimsy
sum­mer time.


I thought by now you’d be mine.


Autumn leaves fringe but
the night sky is already winter and
the first splinter
enters the heart.


Sun set spills red, each day my head fills
with what I don’t quite want to know.


Past dreams: where do they go?


And the moon, she flies and then sets
and yet, and yet
Inside a tea chest of hope
bucket of bubbles, best before, or, mar­in­at­ing mir­acle
will you ripen and unfold
long past your sea­son
and into the time of cold
giddy won­der as, out­side of reason, stor­ies are told


black-as-winter, black­berry wine.

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