Quite a few summers have passed since I wrote this poem. I still get annoyed when a fly lands in my wine. Many other things have changed since then. Fly in the Wine He doesn’t believe me but a fly in the wine changes it – the smell, the taste; Of course, the allure. Air-lifting it out doesn’t help either. He doesn’t believe me, but I don’t care. I drain and refill anyway, which makes him shake his head, makes him panic; makes him question my dedication to sustainability. It makes me feel resilient, this fresh pour; makes me feel sweet and unbent, translucent and lucid; makes me think that a drunk fly, a sad sigh, and a mile away are maybe all the same. -