Medicine Chest (on the fruitility of poetry)

In the cool cellar here  
fermented select words
like fine whine  
 
Poured from stingy bottles  
uncorked for your eyes  
finally  
 
Might be mistaken  
for actual guiser  
Illusion  
 
When instead  
they are blood read  
medicine fountains  
only poured out  
seasonally  
 
These are great fruit  
crazy winter wonders  
mere servings  
 
Finding sun  
in sour squeezes  
by the glass
at the underground bar