Drowsy, awake to everything, out of myself, inside you, the work of your wine vat
where the grapes are invisible.
All one sees is stained feet tromping about, making a juice different from ordinary grapes.
This wine gives no hangover, but do not condemn yourself for living in leftover stupor.
Someone built and set the hangover trap
you find yourself in.
It is the bottom of Joseph’s pit, where he becomes medicine, a clean tent, a field of stubble and shine.
Shams is winter daylight. I more resemble the long night coming after.