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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.