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
wine.