i’ve always loved

the smell of

 

pinot noir in

the night,

 

when even your

saddest

 

poem becomes

a goddess,

 

who washes over

 

this moaning, painful

world

 

again and again

 

with rain and sun
and sky,

 

who laughs at my

pathetic little

 

love for you, but

puts her arms

 

around me anyway,

and holds me

 

trembling against

this sudden

 

darkness, and

calls me

 

daughter, calls me

light.