the wine bottle on my finger
is no indication of clumsiness
but memory, as in, I need to know
where this wine is; it’s not
an indication of a drinking problem,
it’s a celebration of everything,
how nothing exists without love,
plus, the dilemma of extracting
tender parts of yourself from delicate
situations without harm

the grain of the proof is the reason
in the raisin: profundity
notwithstanding, count me in
with everyone — with grape
leaves crown me, scoundrel,
cur, king, this drinking
means nothing, everything
I recline on Olympus, in the
gutter too; there’s really no
place I’m not reclined to
if there’s a god of wine
surely I worship with
stained lip and vulgar wit

the wine bottle stuck to my finger
in a railroad station somewhere
profound, is not an indication of
a drinking problem, it is an invitation
to discover love when it discovers you
and in falling, find and uncover
another whose fingers are bound
how clumsily we touch, our bottles
shatter, scar each other, we are too fragile,
too sharp to handle this love, if only
there were more wine bottles on our fingers

the wine bottle on my finger is not
an indication of a drinking problem
it is a reminder to buy more wine
or there will be a problem
these wine stained lips only pause
to praise the god of wine, bound
in supplication as they are
and my need for wine is only
superseded by my need for your kiss
so I reach out to you

(Note: this poem makes more sense if I say that the third stanza is in reference to Dylan Thomas’ story Adventures in the Skin Trade. Samuel Bennet, the story’s protagonist, arrives in London, I think it’s Piccadilly Station, with a beer bottle stuck on his finger. Hence the “wine bottle on. my finger”.)