The wine we really drink is our own blood.
Our bodies ferment in these barrels.
We give everything for a glass of this.
We give our minds for a sip.



Wine to intensify love,
fire to consume, we bring these,
not like images from a dream reality,
but as an actual night to live through until dawn.



In complete control, pretending control,
with dignified authority, we are charlatans.
Or maybe just a goat’s hair brush in a painter’s hand.
We have no idea what we are.



We donate a cloak to the man who does the washing.
We feel proud of our generosity.
We stare at the infinite, suffering ocean.
We fall in.