I raise a wine combed glass to a dangerous height
And she takes a resolute but careless bite
Of her bread with brie and drip-laced honey.
I hold it heaven-high so as to toast the sight
Of her black nightshade eyes and the sunny
Wave of each yellow tress and her funny
Ways that belie indifference and doubt
In a smile that first did sit me down and won me.
The swirling wine cleaves to sides and dances about,
Around the inside of the glass and some without.
It heaves with a swing to the rim of the tip
And drips much like the same sweet honey from out
Of coy, supercilious and smirking lips.
I resign to take yet another small sip.
Instead hand and glass like a hammer roars down
Once more, and again, and again, in vertical rips
That fall, explode on, a crash of a crown.
There red wine blood and sweet amber all round
Mingles and merges. The deed did send
(At last) her lips toward mine. A lifeless head abounds
In a sweet and dry brine. I did kill her then.
No need to sit and wonder could I do it again.
For the very act, seemingly, dared to decree
That with strange mix of sweet and sour, I did bend
Her will toward mine. As far as I might care to see,
I procured that honey from a miserly bee.
On passion's whim, either wrong or right,
I doused with wine the sweet sting that stung me.
