The Wine of Days

Topical application of currency, rubbing it in, and the slow bleeding of change from my life. Can we make music from loss? Is there a sob that echoes back as song? For what does it profit a man to gain eternal life but loose his very soul? Rushing for health I miss the normal outgrowth of disease, the thing called character, which seems to have a close approximation to weariness. A clarity, a settling of sediment, the lighter spirits greeting my nose first, when it is I myself which has been opened. Age drags wine to that drinkable band of time beyond which something else happens – an increase in acidity as frailer molecules devolve. Seize the day takes on new meaning. I should drink the wine at the right time, when it is mature, not necessarily when a certain number of months have been clocked. I rub money on my pain in hopes that possessions will block the outflow of time, the ever present ebb of years. There is no going back, there is no firm foundation, even Jesus is changing, showing up in a new car, winking at me from the drug store window, his sure scared hand steadying my fall into the unknown. How is it that we love the dead so much, even the resurrected? Life is moving on, bright trout puzzle in the solution of days.