The gift of wine. My glass cups a ruby pool. And there are moths in the shed dancing unforbidden in shoals of suspenseful dust. As I court the approaching nowhere with a Spirit in my Grasp. I debunk the ruin of my days with my casual glooming. Soaking in the bloated beauty of our constant world as we blunder on the surface of our childhood dreams⦠A bronze rope spooling from the sun has found my open hand.