Though I'm a voracious reader, poetry isn't high on my stack most days (confession: I always skip the poems in The New Yorker, too). But when a copy of Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers, a slim little volume of wine poems by Joseph Mills, landed on my desk, I was hooked right away.

The book is both witty and sardonic, digging deeper than a usual wine book that talks of vintages tasted, winemakers met, experiences had. Each poem brings up issues that "real" wine experts aren't supposed to discuss, like how Mills smells the cigarette smoke caught in his father's wool coat and the mold of Mary McDonald's basement in his wine instead of more official, objective terms. He wonders what a critic would have rated the wine Jesus miraculously produced from water. He wishes people had labels like wines so we could instantly assess them.

To rate Angels in wine terms, it's intense and focused, with hints of poignancy and humor in the bouquet. The flavors are supported by well-chosen words and the finish is long and a little spicy. The label (cover)--the work of an unknown medieval artisan--makes one chuckle at the sameness of human nature. The book is a perfect match with a roaring fire and a glass of--what else?--a deep, brooding red like Syrah or Cabernet. Drink (read) now or hold to savor a bit at a time.

Read an excerpt after the jump.

Introductions Made Easy

If only people wore labels,
their foreheads clearly displaying
their appellation, their varietal,
their alcohol content,
think of the time it would save.
We could cut out the small talk,
the "where are you from?"
and "what do you do?"
Appropriate pairings
would be more obvious,
we might know if they met
government standards,
and we would have a better idea
who might improve with age
and who we should enjoy
right now.

Marks

Over the years I have worked
my way up the store shelves
from buying the jug wines
near the floor
to the bottles at the knees
the hips, the stomach,
each shelf a pencil mark
on a door frame,
charting my growth,
the changes in careers,
relationships, desires.

Now I can reach
for the chest-high wines,
the somber-colored ones
with dignified labels,
the ones that never wear
paper necklaces explaining
how great they pair
with fish or pasta,
and each time I do
I resist the urge
to look around
and see if anyone
is marveling
at what a big boy
I have become.

Excerpted from Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers by Joseph Mills.