At a wine bar, the sommelier queries
Do you want body or complexity?
I hesitate, weighing this choice.
My body craves complexity, again.
I have simplified my life: I write. I love.
Each with the clarity of a city skyline
seen from a distance after a rainstorm.
My muddied boots neatly stashed.
Long ago, when I first joined Facebook,
I checked the relationship option: It’s Complicated.
Having found myself caught like a lazy
housefly in my own intricate web.
I’m out with younger poets. I try to parse
the complex syntax of their lives—
familiar yet foreign. Like returning to a city
after decades or encountering
a former lover and remembering only
the language of his tongue on your skin.
Perhaps the body can hold only
so much memory. My mouth cradles
words of advice. How easy to clarify
butter, reduce sauce with experience.
Tazzelenghe, the sommelier says, pouring
the red wine, it means cut the tongue.
