the blood is red, thick, teaming with rationale
but it cannot relieve the dryness in my throat;
the summer heat makes me weary of all the pedestals
we made in the snow—i hold the torch we lit
to explore what was in these lines and sheets,
to read what someone carved in the table at the bar
but it made the snow melt into my insecure puddle
mixed with undeserving tears—a noxious cocktail
that makes me sick with each reluctant sip:
sometimes water is harder to take than wine.

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