Oysters devoured raw with lemon,
the sun turning burned orange, its warmth
slips teasing my citrus lips,
The tongue of fire,
tell me once,
Is this all real:
silence amidst unquestioning brightness.
Would I not relapse, into the same room again
with a finished pinot noir on the floor?
the tongue needing a flood,
lungs: a river of smoke
and the heart: a sea of troubles.