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The night as coracle and pleasure,
dark spice to spill into and drift
wherever the wind decides.
A woman
sings a cappella,
her reed-thin voice and vintage
beads black under a moon
slung low in the summer vineyard.
On the hill, music.
Laughter.
Cassis and violets,
plum on the tongue.
I have been told too little
of your breath has bloomed into silver.
I have seen your song wane.
I have seen it sour like wine.
–published in Silk Road Review 5.1, Spring 2010