Memory in the Wine

Hope Maxwell Snyder

After Terrance Hayes

This trip. This seat. This wine. This bottle. This wine.
This sleep. This empty heart. This love, quickly crawling,
light floating outside the window of the plane. This silence.
This glass. This trembling. That is where I lie on the bed
by the wall, next to a window in the light of dawn. How
soon, how well, should a man and a woman make love?
How soon, how well, have I loved? On the bed, on the couch,
on the couch, on the bed. Love, like a train wreck, love, like
a cold bath. Love, like a brimming purse and a brimming
purse heavy and overpowering. This trip. This seat. This wine,
this torture. This book. This poem in a book. This wine
on the tongue. This memory in the wine.

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