I'm quite certain this isn't Beaujolais

or Lambrusco, the fruity aftertaste
of the wine has gone. Here the half-life

of dusk falls across the tablecloth,  not unlike
what have I done wrong this time?

Hush: the bouquet and the finish, that found
shoelace in the streets of Lisbon,

a scalpel tracing my breast's perimeter.
There comes a season when drinking

alone is no longer an alternative
and earthy textures hold the mouthfeel

of death. Rim color: mahogany, a sensation
called metastasis, slivers in the bone

that aren't exactly transparent. This is how
night draws close: the glass breaks,

viscous stains like urine or lipstick slosh
the carpet, the run in my stockings.