Beautiful deep blonde. Mouthwatering nose of eucalyptus and sandy beach vacation. Reminiscent of that fantastic morning, that one fantastic morning, that one fantasy. Stays frustratingly in the glass no matter what you do. Can be poured. Can be swirled. A few airborne molecules of which can be siphoned off, but nothing more than a whiff of things which can be imagined. A sinking house in Venice, a shining opal or gold filigree. Pink sandstone carving remain stubbornly, shockingly complete after 600 years of ants carrying splinters of wood from the decimated nearby town, the overgrown streets, the choked off rivers.
The choked off rivers. Dams that have burst years ago and reformed at other bends, flooded the boneyards and stocked ponds and been destroyed and rebuilt and have been steadily bleached in the sun. Forgiveness sweet as honey but not flowing; clotted and sickly. Lurid colors promising what everyone has always wanted but in the end just a trick of evolution, a defense mechanism, a survivalist manifesto torn from the pages of fiction, now standing in a new context and worried about the vanishing crops this year, the soy beans baking in the sun, the climate all wacked out on pills.
Fingers clenched into impotent fists, the shapes useless for picking up food for manipulating machinery for soothing skiddish horses, women, babes. Wispy clouds burning off by the afternoon, the hottest part of the day and the wine not evaporation and the glass slipping from your clenched fingers but not spilling, and the bottle being emptied but never tasted. Yellow wine that smells necessary, satisfying, pleasing. Imagination leaving reality to be another example of.