The finest white table cloth
Seduces merlot, filled to the brim,
To spill, red as liver…
The shape of Greenland…
On innocent linen.
It never spills on a blue plastic
Throwaway cloth,
And never a Riesling
That spills with no trace.
But merlot races
On woven lanes of golden threads
With glee to the hem of a pristine shore.