A Carafe

by Alan Gould

When evening floats upon her back
in green lagoons of frontignac,

and lorikeets of longing play
along the shores of chardonnay,

   not sleepy but lazy
   not thirsty but easy
   induce us, seduce us

reliably and affably
along the reaches of chablis,

or scatter our five wits upon
the seven seas of Semillon,

   not grouchy, but listening,
   our five wits not lessening,
   surprise us and tease us

in chilly grottos that are whistling
with bright waterfalls of Riesling,

or on Byronic coasts of hock
wreck us on some lovely rock,

   not needing assistance,
   but each in full presence,
   enlarge us and urge us

and be assured we’ll not refrain
to whoop in geysers of champagne,

or sink a deep artesian well
in the catchments of moselle,

   not fearing reproof
   or loved one’s rebuff,
   limn in us, loom in us,

and though each serves his sticky turn
in the quicksands of sauternes,

bring us back to life and stamina
in saunas of vivacious Traminer,

   not sleepy but lazy,
   not thirsty but easy.


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