It is the old rule that drunks have to argue
and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad. He falls into a hole. But down in that hole he finds something shining, worth more than any amount of money or power.
Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street. I took it as a sign to start singing, falling up into the bowl of sky. The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere. Nothing else to do.
Here is the new rule. Break the wine glass, and fall toward the glassblower’s breath.
Adam A. Azim 