Bordeaux

Ages from now, when this moment is ripe

as clustered fruit on vines and boughs,

I will pour it into memory’s cup,

And drink.

Whether we wither, or go to seed,

Whether picture perfect turns to postcard cliché,

or is preserved in the lingering perfumes of hair and skin;

This moment will go out in barrels, like boats,

or caskets, to sleep, ferment,

To grow sweet, bitter, strong.

Ages from now, when we are ripe,

wrinkled, sour, two old mangoes in the sun,

Growing tired, marking the time in seconds,

And small increments--as very old things do;

When the day grows long and draws into night,

And the last boats come to port—

We will taste, upon our lips, Ourselves, as we were,

A Memory, sacred, sanguine,

Sweet.