I tasted and spat

as the experts did

so I could taste again.

I put my nose in. I cleansed

my palate with bread.

I friend guided me;

he thought because I drank often

I drank well.

He thought I might be looking

for subtleties, as he was.

My vocabulary was "good"

and "not so good."

I was usually a drinker

looking for a mood.

We moved among the oak barrels

and private reserves,

the fine talk of the serious

performing their delicate

mysterious craft.

Yet about the art of aging

I found myself indifferent

nothing to say or ask.

We went outside,

walked among the woody vines

and fleshy, often violet,

sometimes green, prodigal,

smooth-skinned grapes.

The day was beautiful.

My friend was happy, sated.

There's never enough, I thought.

There never can be enough.