Justin Runge

from Rooms Between Home

Past glass builds up to its breaking point, and eventually
we load it like luggage—month after month of drunk—
and drive an hour north; we are ready for the redemptive
act, that shattering again and again as we pitch each jar
into the vast crackle carpeting the bin, shielding our eyes,
though we wish we could stare, slow the moment down,
watch each bottle in its disassembly turn from geometric
to geometries; their contents never gave us such clarity,
though they lurched our movements, made witless pilots
out of us, navigating our hulking vehicles through doors,
out of shoes, off of cliffs, and our mornings worse for it,
regret-glowing and televisioned, spent washing out wine
from glasses, washing mouths out with the shower water,
clean of residue and ready to be broken down and recast.

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