beneath the bay window

someone told me he was hiding
he vaguely details his abuse
what it feels like the intimacy issues
the shrugging arrogance of love
someone tells me he is dying
on a napkin he inks out the invisible
unwelcome suffocating in a dream 
he stabs it into his mind’s eye 
someone will talk about hope
this dear fear of dreaded things
washed and rinsed honestly undressed
then playing, again, momentarily hidden
beneath the bay window.

‘When Dean Young Talks About Wine’ by Tony Hoagland

When Dean Young Talks About Wine
The worm thrashes when it enters the tequila.
The grape cries out in the wine vat crusher.
But when Dean Young talks about wine, his voice is strangely calm.
Yet it seems that wine is rarely mentioned.
He says, Great first chapter but no plot.
He says, Long runway, short flight.
He says, This one never had a secret.
He says, You can’t wear stripes with that.
He squints as if recalling his childhood in France.
He purses his lips and shakes his head at the glass.
Eight-four was a naughty year, he says,
and for a second I worry that California has turned him
into a sushi-eater in a cravat.
Then he says,
               This one makes clear the difference
between a thoughtless remark
and an unwarranted intrusion.
Then he says, In this one the pacific last light of afternoon
stains the wings of the seagull pink
               at the very edge of the postcard.
But where is the Cabernet of rent checks and asthma medication?
Where is the Burgundy of orthopedic shoes?
Where is the Chablis of skinned knees and jelly sandwiches?
with the aftertaste of cruel Little League coaches?
and the undertone of rusty stationwagon?
His mouth is purple as if from his own ventricle
he had drunk.
He sways like a fishing rod.
When a beast is hurt it roars in incomprehension.
When a bird is hurt it huddles in its nest.
But when a man is hurt,
               he makes himself an expert.
Then he stands there with a glass in his hand
staring into nothing
               as if he were forming an opinion.