In the Cask of Amontillado, Luchresi
is the pedestrian wine expert

I’m Luchresi, risen from the grave,
I’ve come to compare wines
not to praise the raven on the goblets
all in a row, ruby stemmed,
swaying to the color of my thirst.

My lips sway with the quick of wings,
but the raven has a beak
which swoops down on things:
I’m Luchresi, not Edgar Poe,
dancing mellow in the valley of breasts.

In far away hills whose amber I’ve touched,
women waltz in ecstatic shapes,
the raven sits eye to eye,
I’m Luchresi in the dark of cellars,
nomad in a mist of grapes.

The raven taps on my windowpane,
I wake up:
is this beaujolais or champagne?
The raven follows me from age to age,
I’m Luchresi, not Edgar Poe,
I fest in a nest of bottled names.