To the wind
you were the same at both ends.

There is no core.
Encumbered in a dream, you sleep in tissue:

this thin, skirted apparatus
palming the rucksack of the mind.

When silent is is smooth and oblong;
it must survive winter, the pelting snows.

Speak and the barrel fills
bubbling, fermented.

It is yourself you are drinking.
You have all the names.