Residual impurities enhance the aromatic flavor,
titillate our palate with their subtle nuance,
give great wine the character we savor,
Adding to the Absolute an overarching piquance –
yet it is the additive we tend to favor
the Essential only detected in congruence.

Whatever lends form charm and movement grace retains
nothing upon evaporation from or stilling of these remains.

The lord of the rings wipes the long countertop clean,
nods at the bar’s large looking glass, sparkling so clear.
“I don’t serve foam-headed tall ones in my canteen
or have anything to offer you can make disappear.”
Neither coming, nor going, that one is a go-between
casually pointing out the spiral in what seemed linear.

Keep your distance, if you can, from such a frightening old salt
for he may suddenly appear, offering brusquely, “Not your fault!”

With the house wine in my glass before that mirror,
I see in front of me a true sot who is a chameleon –
the mentor to the mirrored man in that plane’s metaphor,
for the blood in these veins is blue and not carnelian,
which means thin skin contains the watercolor
which ran into a new life in that hot bar’s neon.

The barkeep asks, would I care for another?
I wonder if he knows how much I loved her.