On the Subject of Settling

On the Subject of Settling

 

The wine does not choose the cadence of its sediment.

In the carafe mellowed time extorts the womb and so falls

The mellowed traces, instantaneous and eternal.

One can’t say one has not lived in light of minerals collecting.

Depth is a measure, but any is proof.

And so accumulates the hardened moments, whether in hardness

Or no, a tabulation built into bouquet now wafting through the

Stillness between you and I.

            -- “More?” you ask.

                        -- More? When asked I this much?

                           I perforate the long liquid wake with probing eyes.

                           When asked I the first glass? When the second?

                           Möbius, I think, has bent me to here though I never

                           Once strayed from the path.

                           Möbius, I think, has come to settle his accounts,

                           To siphon from me the answer of my place.

                           And though I strain within his thick grip to pronounce

                           Myself, the carafe loosens me.

                                    -- It is a gentle falling, I tell him, with eyes unrelenting,

                                       This moment of life.

                                       As the minerals can neither question their fathoms

                                       Nor fathom their questions, opting instead for a

                                       Presence encompassing and a momentum unyielding,

                                       I too know that, in the fall, I am exactly where I must be,

                                       To do the falling I need to do.

                                       It cannot be any other way.

            -- And so, “More,” I say.

                        -- And so I fall.