June nights to September afternoons
the leaves swaying clapping celebrating
a high cool breeze in the golden light
pour the wine and yes add ice if you wish
there is no judgment here of what
you bring to your lips mildly smiling
in that mesmeric way that leaves me staring
until compelled to kiss the cold corner of your mouth
tasting the mix of you and fermented grapes
the clink of the ice in the glass touching the table
where the beads of sweat form a ring unseen
as our attention takes us elsewhere
sometimes into the following dawn
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