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.


One thought on “Cana

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