DEATH BEGETS WINE BEGETS POETRY BEGETS WRITINGOne fateful night.
I stumbled into their tragedy.
The loss of three, the life of one.
In acute, charcoal emotion, I lost her.
For real. She slipped through my fingers like
sand or time
Grasp as I may,
It's probably the malbec.
Or the bastard who takes life.
Or the bastard who gives poetry.
I no longer pretend to be unaffected.
How to plead with the powers that be
for a 47-year old loss?