The wine runs out, they tell me.
You will run and run and run
in pursuit of passion and life and more, but
always the wine runs out.
And it’s true.
It is vanity, chasing after wind,
and every good fight that I have ever fought ends when
the wine runs out.
But tonight the Nazarene’s wild eyes look to me,
and the scars on his outstretched hands are a roadmap
pointing me to the cosmic wedding in Cana,
where the wine runs out,
but the water for washing runs on,
red and red and red.