-Memory in the wine- 

                                               After Terrance Hayes    

This trip. This seat. This wine. This bottle. This wine. 

This sleep. This empty heart. This love, quickly crawling, 

light floating outside the window of the plane. This silence.

This glass. This trembling. That is where I lie on the bed 

by the wall, next to a window in the light of dawn. How 

soon, how well, should a man and a woman make love? 

How soon, how well, have I loved? On the bed, on the couch,

on the couch, on the bed. Love, like a train wreck, love, like 

a cold bath. Love, like a brimming purse and a brimming 

purse heavy and overpowering. This trip. This seat. This wine,

this torture. This book. This poem in a book. This wine

on the tongue. This memory in the wine.

                The Kenyon Review