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.

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