I slide the glass to you across the bar
drink, springs here and you know the solstice isn’t
yet. There is still an excuse to warm the blood except
the devil’s fire. The cherry in the glass slides down,
always the best part, except the wrath. I consider
what it would be like to flounder on your shore, like
winter turning on spring’s appeal and lure.
Christopher Baird 2011 ©
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