If I love wine, it’s as an admirer of colour
and texture: how the glass sends a skewed
view of the room’s edges away from me,
as desired at five when I require distance
from my life, how the lid twists off easy
as an apple stem, and how sometimes
wine is pale as a cockatiel, or the yellow
of good cheddar, or humidity’s deep citrine,
how a wineglass has the same plain shape
as a day but is also convex and contained
as a mind, how the type I like is called
white but is transparent, and how some
afternoons the glass might or might not
hold the day’s only gold minutes in it.