You are no Summer’s Day;
you are the night my dark Pinot.
you invade me
cuvaisons peeling back one
long loving
layer
at a
time.
Your slow touches of skin
feel like 5, 10,
15 days
on my tongue.
How long will you keep me
waiting?
Lower your warm body
Into
my red, wet terroir, son
à l’Adam.
Keep my blood
exploding, growing
expressions of
your taste, your
smell filling
me
with the earth.
No, you are no Summer’s Day,
chéri-de-goutte.
But the rich languorous,
Primeval
lover of my Nuits.
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