Full moon. Quietly awake, you look down from a corner of the roof, reminding us it’s not time to sleep, or to drink wine. Tonight we’re getting love-messages. For their sake we must not go to sleep. The fragrance of your hair spreading through the streets makes the perfumers wonder at such competition. Grapes under feet that crush them turn whichever way they are turned. You ask why I turn around you? Not around you, I turn around myself. Gone, inner and outer, no moon, no ground or sky. Don’t hand me another glass of wine. Pour it in my mouth. I’ve lost the way to my mouth.