French love
stolen from cobbled
streets at night,
ground up
and stuck in grain.
Below wine, above glass,
and swallowed
(mistakenly).
It’s hard to forget
such great simplicity;
this wine holds my lips
which has more to say
than you and me.
At night I dream
of how the cork
would have smelled,
if only I’d had the strength
to pry it free.