James Matthew Wilson 

The Vineyard Dinner:  A Retrospect 

She offered him the heart-meat of two doves,
The smoke and tartness of wine marinade.
It seemed he tasted her at one remove
And took with gratitude what she had made.

The smoke and tartness of wine marinade
Drifting across the vineyard, while they ate
And took with gratitude what she had made.
He set his fork and knife across the plate.

Drifting across the vineyard while they ate:
The bitter tannin rose from ripening grapes.
He set his fork and knife across the plate
And listened to the birdsongs sing of rape.

The bitter tannin rose from ripening grapes.
She offered him the heart-meat of two doves,
And listened to the birdsongs sing of rape.
It seemed he tasted her at one remove.

Alone, Far from The New Yorker

A teenage boy, I’d flip its ad-hemmed pages,
   Its suave black columns, hoping there to learn
About the world of literary sages
   Who drank in wrinkled linen suits or turned

With cigarette to meet the camera’s eye
   As if their lives consisted of genteel
Suffering in the heart’s urbane mystery,
   Aborted love affairs, and drunken meals.

I memorized their names and read their books
   And tried to imitate the suited poses
That lent the writing life its charming look:
   A weary preference for Jameson over roses.

I wrote stories; never heard, but listened for
   Cheever, Brennan or White’s knock at my door.