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Unoaked Merlot

February 27, 2012

Red wine

pools like darkness

in the bottom of my glass.

Light sneaks in through

half-open blinds

and flashes

as cars drive by,

lost or drunk or

tending to middle-of-the-night

things.

Cohen tells me the cracks, because they let the light in,

are ok.

And as I run I see

even my shadow looks smaller.

Bending and stretching and

reaching for that thing

just out of grasp, oh so close…

so close and yet.

Not as close as it seems, not as close as it looks from

where I stand.

I look into the darkness

and I swirl it and

I breathe it in and I wonder

what it would be like to jump-

just abandon all my fears

and forget the limits and the programs and the

restraints and restrictions and see,

just see

what I’m really made of

what I’m really capable of

whether the light can really penetrate

this twlight where I dwell.

This place that’s neither here nor there,

this nor that

dark nor light,

the shadowy incongruence

of what if

and maybe and

I don’t know and

someday.

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