Look up at the night’s wide dome
adrift through the calm of your mind,
an open vat of deep silent wine—
like floating on the lakes of the moon—
reflecting stars, a looking glass of dreams,
your eyes, upon noiseless waters.
These waters will evaporate and rise,
stew and frown into stormy weather
to murk the stars, darken your eyes.
This will come. This will go. Rest your mind,
pressing down, light unto a screen.
Don’t let yourself be tormented.
The stars are grapes swelling on a vine,
aching to fall, to be fermented
in the Lake of Softness, Lake of Time.