Again, Maybe

He was wine drunk and in love, again.

Maybe.

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.

Maybe.

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,

Maybe.

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