Warmed by Wine, or Water

My friend and I woke up late. While most of our days in Hungary had been peppered with incessant activity (my beloved walking tour being one such activity), our agenda for this afternoon consisted only of things we may previously have imagined ourselves doing in another life – perhaps one in which we were genteel, rather wealthy, and used the word ‘summer’ as a verb.


An Ode to Wine

I drink her when she’s pretty,

Glowing ruby, smooth, she’s deathly bloody,

In my home or in a new and starry city.