Wine Names & Other Conduits

I’m drinking from a glass of Reflection

while I ponder

all that goes into seeing myself.

childhood isn’t as blurry,

though exaggerations of forgetfulness abound.

teenage brawls

become adult brawls,

as we resist maturing past distrust.

We’re not over trust,

just like we’re not over abandonment,

or neglect,

or injuries of every variety.

We’re not beyond it

even when we make it to where

we remember

where we

thought

we’d be

by now.

when is now?

where we left ourselves?

where we found ourselves?

where we changed ourselves?

where something else changed us?

where we met ourselves?

where we loved ourselves?

when seeing

and trusting

and loving

merged in our sight?

how an eye

can be called a lens

and perspective

can cast an image

that you answer to

for a while.

a while;

how we describe the recent distant past.

my finger can reach in and stir

liquid glimpses,

learning ultimately that

I can swallow this.

I don’t have to

look

to lose myself

in every

moment’s ripples.

ripples,

create more ripples,

curves,

motion,

and then calm.

you can sip

and drink

and hold an emptier glass.

you can be more

than what fits in your

throat

and stomach

and mind’s eye.