Sakartvelo

In Tblisi

I’d like to see

that a red wine life

quenches everything

meant to be.

Now I know

there’s no way

to make those

tannins stay.

At Mtskheta

I’d wait for you

in a prayerful niche

where the spirits have

work to do.

            Then I span

            Georgian sky

            --a grebe that’s

            bound to fly.

As for history

I’d hope to claim

that Koba is burned

through the fanning of

Zviad’s flame.

            But I s’pose

            there’s no way

            to make such

            poems stay.

--DMVL