Agino

He swirls his burgundy  glass, 

tears fall back 

like they always do. 

A sunken, foreboding moan 

release from his lip.

The spice of the abrusco, 

trifle his tongue--

palpitating each pore

of his epithelium. 

Brain receptors detonate,

like tannerite 

to his passe palate. 

It is that bittersweet memory

:the toast,

from the same burgundy glass,

with Elsea Corbin

(who died last November).

Every May 12th 

he would uncork a bottle of Agino.

For 57years

they shared the last sip

on their lips.

The notes linger: 

like a peppery bouquet,

held by a young girl in white lace.

The notes linger:

 like the end key to Canon in D.

The notes linger: 

like a samba 

across a robust, crystal  canvas.  

The notes linger:

 like the shadow 

of an empty,  burgundy glass.