Sometimes I write poetry: Orange Blossom Muscat

Orange Blossom Muscat

It was,

I believe it was,

the orange blossom muscat

you poured out, that night,

into two crystal

glasses, that allowed me to see

the world,

perhaps, though I do not know this, but perhaps,

in a way that you see it?

I wonder

because the sweet fragrant fruit

rose from the glass

circling in my hand

and filled my sense

of smell, eyes closed,

with art and memory.

I wonder

because you asked me

to take a small sip

and not to think of words,

of things, objects, nouns,

to take another

small sip, to taste.

To taste and see.

I wonder

at what I saw.

A wonder

that I saw:

that sweet and bitter and tart

taste enveloped one mouth,

from one cup,

into one body.

But it was not strange.

Not, that is,

completely other

than I,

than I with you

had always been,

was it?

And I saw

you see

in me

in the world there between us

not a chasm

estranged from quarrels past,

but friendship,

sweet and bitter and tart,

but friendship nonetheless

just

as the orange blossom muscat flows

over my tongue.

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