There's an old rule that drunks have to argue
and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad. He falls down 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 brakes. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
Nothing else to do.
Here's the new rule: break the wineglass.
And fall toward the glassblower's breath.