Like wine are
the nocturnal winter hours.


Alone, I sip the black vintage
of this long winter's night.


A bouquet requiem
poured to breathe
from the crystal
carafe of day.


Chilled funeral perfection,
my fingers aching
on the stem.


These slender hands
are frost bitten
with raw anxiety.


Night's bottle served
wrapped in the white linen
towel of a half moon.


A choker diamond jeweled
with icy stars
circles my pale neck
while
I breathe air so cold
it slashes.


The winter wind
howls its daggers
down my throat.
I stare solitary
tasting
the ironic palate
Of this
lonely winter night's
icy wine.