While Reading Hemingway

dried-up wine clings to the bottom

of two glasses upon my window sill;

the rain water pound the glass

and streak down below the stem;

the cup remains empty

but the smell is so full;

when the water hits the wooden frame.

the oak becomes darker than the wine;

the spatter of raindrops on the side

of the glass makes the outside full;

the dried spot at the bottom

is a wound against the grey sky;

each rain drop cauterize the cut

with a deep, spattering sear.