He throws the red by hand, by the glass, the void. He slips and turns in the vortex in the neck. Every single drop clings to the glass viscosity with nails and screams of panic in the fall. Further down upside down until no gravity pulls the fluid down and throws him into the lake placid arrival. As my blood, suddenly, everything new is stirred as a crowd on the run, past the event subsides as if nothing had happened. Coagulated red wine, indifferent, until the lips.
photo: decanter, December 31, 2010
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