Another Glass of Red

Wine is a funny thing.

I've got a bone to pick
with the evening wine
and dine deal soaked.

With cold fingers and colder bones,
the eyes see what the glass allows.
And what I see now is a leaf-strewn path
and a slashed pot-plant
fresh with my scent,
tossed about like these words
on the frozen ground.

The scarves on the town's neck
breathe out, then in floods the smoke
from the encroaching clubs.

We're all small people
on a smaller ball called Earth.
But there are those who from birth see
the wilderness beyond
what drunk eyes allow us to be.
Now, I see the possibility
of madness
in existence, the drive of others
propelling me across oceans
and through bedroom walls.

Old rain drops will fall
from fire-brand bricks
and the plaques erected
will let those before us know
that here stood a man
who was willing to forgo himself
for a goal not yet understood
The stillness rings.