August is swamp month
in New York City.

At a cool wine bar in Brooklyn Heights
we order the mains of brunch.

An egg—
where everything begins,

and a 1979 red blend
so rust-brown and perfect.

Who serves 39-year-old wines
by the glass?

I remark that the wine
is older than us,

since before we were
even eggs.

Word arrives midbite—Chris has died,
born in 1979, died in 2018

like this bottle of