Yes, there is blue wine tonight, the vines
Coaxed into alcoholic song to which
I'll listen with my belly and my tongue.
Sing of a shade of peach
Unknown to Cezanne,
Unwritten for Proust, my lovely blend:
Though you are cheap, though you are
Fat, though you have a handle
Where I hold you (and tilt back
When we touch) we are meant
For this duet, the only harmony
That brings me in accord with life.
It will be jazz on the cheap,
Fat bottle, it will be dreams
Taking shape, shipping
Into the wider waste. Here neon
Is the sun, and whoring
Is our daughter; when we kiss
We laugh.
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