What do you touch first when you wake?
Where do your feet take you, and where do you choose to stand?
Is the light rising or dying behind this dust?
Dust of construction or decay?
Does this skin hold anything but me?
Am I repeating myself?
Solid answers elude us. Are then the answers liquid? Like wine.
Is that something we can hold?
Like a stone.
There is one to pour the drink despite the vinegar we quaff;
to break the bread knowing where we'll sop it.
A stone of stumbling who is blood and broken bodies.
Skin stretched by new wine to bursting and bleeding
Carries us in mangled arms
Staggers with us drunk