It lies in our hands in crystals
too intricate to decipher

It goes into the skillet 
without being given a thought

It spills on the floor, so fine 
we step all over it

We carry a pinch behind each eyeball

It breaks out on our foreheads

We store it inside our bodies 
in secret wineskins

At supper, we pass it around the table, 
talking of holidays by the sea