So who'll drink first? You or me?
How specific our thirst is—for just this raisin,
just this weedy fragrance, the tannic
beatitudes of wine!
Do we abjure the proletariat of corn and hops?
We do!
Wine is how words taste, fermented in darkness,
releasing tongues from cobwebs that restrained them.
Old friend, I can see by the look on your face
you've
something to tell me. Good or bad? Speak!
"Café des Artistes," John Hartley Williams
[Madison Street west of Wabash Avenue]
