by D.S. Grauel Gloves, nitrile with the scent of industry, Mask, moist with fetid breath, the two—a double-edged salvation– are not with me at this tender moment. One in the trash. The other, laundry room sink. My face is nude.   I open the door with Barbaresco Nebbiolo in hand, a cellar selection gifted from a friend in Porta Venezia,…