Booze, bondage, B. Street I grabbed two from the cupboard, left by his ex-wife, Maria. “Forget the glasses,” he said. “We’re far from the crystal type.” It was cheap vineyard grape, along with the left of the leftovers, we threw in with the Sunday night sauce. So we chugged it straight up, then played in his den; whips, chains and cabernet, clinking our bottles. Two etch a sketched poets, bare feet on land mines, in uncharted fields, where we’d landed this moment - a moment best left, undefined.