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I stare at the base of the wine bottle
they have that interesting thumb mound
there in the bottom, if you get down that far

I could pretend I’ve never seen that swell of glass before
but a convincing liar I am not
an elaborate tale does not a liar make

but it did make it easier to pour
link by link, poem by poem
till no wine and only a hundred poems are left

there is an electricity that arcs
when poets convene
surely not unlike pray’ers gathered in threes

we swim until drunk
on the camaraderie of comments
breaking us down like fine wines

my passion is stirred by verbs and vine
and I write again wondering
if I too possess such a hand hold

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