Poetry

Jan Owen: Two Poems

A Little Wine I remember you, Dario, courteous, long-faced croupier who found me lost in the mist on Verona’s vast piazza with twilight rising from the cobbles, and how you escorted me back through the blurred grid of alleys towards my door, unsmiling —yes, perfectly poker-faced— but stopping on the way “per un bicchiere di vino?” at the counter of a small cantina walled with bottles, a cellar come up for air. And how a hand glanced off the lampshade so it swayed just over the heads of a dozen strangers like a benediction. So the red wine, held up,…

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