Bite The Drink

   In a simple glass of watery wine.
I cannot find a true reflection.
The glass is never still,
without ripples,without splashily slipping,
down smooth green sides.
Lips, perhaps parched,
maybe chapped, pained peeling.
Ahhh, but to moisten a moment.
     I cannot find myself,
in the rippling distortion.
A shining ball, a dull book.
Pray,give pause, for do they define,
in some possible mirror of momentary grasp.
A second stopped to be gazed upon.
The wonders that maybe.
In a hopeful wish.
In a shaky hand.
In an empty glass.                                                                

                                                       (10-20-10)injured hand writing(6-23-10)