DRINKING IN THE MOUNTAINS
I am caught in the hold of this hammock,
drunk on a bottle and a half of wine,
stretched between two pines
high in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The sky is blurred in the pool
by hundreds of water-spider wakes,
the trees' reflections cut the mirror in two.
There, in the shade, the goldfish
wave their tails and disappear into light
like the face in dreams
I forget the instant I see it.
The clouds unravel on one side,
the fish swim through trees on the other.
I hoist my bottle to full sail;
the glass mouth is warm on my lips,
our tongues play,
bubbles rise from my head,
in them I see myself and the world vanish.