Pinot Noir — thin skin, it lets the whole hill in:
Wax and wool and weather in the stairwell air.
Whatever's soft in us is what they came for (what they came for),
Thin skin, thin skin — so we light a flame.

Tuesday, nine p.m., and the whole building loses power,
Madame Roux knocks on every door with a candle and a corkscrew.
Fourth floor brings the bread, the student brings a lighter,
And I bring the Burgundy I had saved for no reason.
Seven strangers on the stairwell, one glass between three of us,
Wax on the banister, the whole house smelling of smoke and cherries,
Someone says, "It's like a church in here," and no one argues.

Pinot Noir — it bruises at a glance,
Wool coats, borrowed matches, someone's grandmother's name.
Whatever's soft in us is what they came for (what they came for),
Thin skin, thin skin — and so the candles stayed.

The monks of Burgundy once tasted every hillside by the spoonful,
Gave each little slope its own name, like a child with a voice.
Easy grapes grow anywhere; this one has to be asked,
And what it gives you after — rose, cherry, forest floor —
Is nothing you could force, or buy, or plan.
The student says it smells like someone's grandmother's perfume,
Madame Roux says, "Yes. Mine."

Vinum laetificat cor hominis.

Candle stubs, one thermos going round with something stronger in it.
Nobody said a word about love —
They counted floors and said, "Same time next outage, then."

Pinot Noir — thin skin, it lets the whole hill in:
Cherry, wet stone, the mushroom smell of rain.
Whatever's soft in us is worth the candle (worth the candle),
Thin skin, thin skin — we'll do it all again (doucement).