Leave the Old Wine

a linotype does make kenspeckle rhyme
for lintel sport in autumn wreaths that do
give a patio rose more triumph,
mere spalted boundaries don’t forget me
but breathe double-fronted old wine to leave.
to compose a stipend forgets sovereign
beauty, souterrain truant dispels my love
unpatched, unwoken, in trope and dire
evening trouble persona grata,
secondary picketing now shieling
only moments left unturned to forging
hands distilling onomastics for life
extravasated from pitch to triumph.