Wine Cart

Once upon a time
I stood upon an ancient city’s wall
by a people made who saw wooded hills
and thought no farther than the next town
before a mystery overcame them.

They clutched that command of act they had
and counted all relief in the blessing.
Cathedral spire needled heaven
like a compass when I was a child.

Now upon this time
I live the modern man
lulled beneath the pleasant belief
I can see so much and believe so little.
The screen shows me war and famine
but I shun the body death laid out full
till sculptor affixes head and painter
hues the skin.

I remember those youthful years
when I take the bottle, pour in the glass.
Fear was in the fall of night,
purpose in the ache of labor,
smile in a word
over wooden carts moaning.

Once upon a time
I too hauled wine up from the presses —
I can almost taste what it was like to crave.