I know so little about wine.
A friend of mine asked once at dinner
if I liked the wine I had been served.
I said sure, it’s good, and she said
then it’s good wine. This is all
I know about wine.
I know a little more about bitterness.
There is the kind you want that
sits in your coffee and teases you awake
until the whole day is gone and
somehow you made it.
And there’s the other kind you don’t want.
The kind that comes on the back of
an entire history of hatred…
a generational bitterness that spans
all the names that came before you.
I know so little about serpents.
They make me think of the movie
where the famous archaeologist wonders
why it has to be them, and the kind they say
slither around my neighborhood, but
I’ve been lucky enough to never see.
I know so little about ruthless cobras.
Are they really bitter? Don’t they all live
in baskets waiting for live music to
invite their appearance? How bad
could they be if music is so important to them?
I know so little about everything and here
almost at the end of this book, I’m
going to have to throw away the knowledge
I do have, and start all over again.