Wine

Its rare to hear coyotes in the suburbs.

or trains.

or have a nearly fully waxed moon beaming in the sky.

or return home to an empty house that usually breathes seven.

or have a full bottle of wine, for myself and myself only.

I’m tired of happy and sad,

but mostly the debilitating limbo in between.

My muscles ache from the stretch over the canyons.

searching for that green grass,

at the bottom of the bottle.

The cork breathes as deep as I do,

when its uncorked,

undone,

removed from context.

The inside is dark and moist,

perfect to intensify and ferment.

Like I am a grape, 

plump, succulent, fresh,

with so much potential to poison,

wither, secrete;

something so bitter and sweet.

I’m tired of plucking myself from 

sun-ripened branches,

and falling into dark misery.

Casked, and corked.

Contained

in polished sorrow.