He was wine drunk and in love, again.
The wine hadn’t taken charge just yet.
The girl was still just an idea.
But, in the December downpour,
With its wind-powered organs and drizzling flutes,
He felt wine drunk and in love, again.
He’d been wrong before and sometimes
Being wrong was alright, and
These days gave in too easy to the night,
So he hid and read and wrote in his
Room’s soft light, and
He got wine drunk and fell, again,