Perhaps colors in the shapes,
or transformations in the shades
slanted him towards the vines,

Inclined him towards the taste,
forms must live on canvas;
or they’ll stain the space,

Underneath, the old ones lie
in drunk repose. Their gowns
soak the fields with their blood

Of wine. The slippery slopes
of glass surround their will.
Bacchus blurs the walls —

Rooms spin — heads twirl —
in his party’s tragic comedy,
The fall of the inebriate —

The flash of vultures floods
the mind’s canyons. Like young
gods in a precipice, our thoughts

Veer off, poor hearts split open,
prisms for fullness and pain.
We are left blue and green.