Opening the Tawny

I had forgotten
the simple, complex
subtleties the tongue

holds in its bumps
and ridges. The nuances
of currant, vanilla, and orchards

exploding like a supernova
in the mouth. My mouth.
My tongue, exploring again,

doing the reminiscing dance,
wanting to catch your tongue
up in the whole thing. Sirens

halt the stir, wail mournful
and loud as hounds at work.
Let them leave me

in my reverie, glass to lips,
memory intact, and harsh
as the brutal ice falling outside

my window, memories
sepia-colored and clear,
Grant me the grace

to lift the port to call, again
and again, leeward and starboard
and full steam ahead beneath

the gathering stars.