new wine / by Jean Heng

let us not pretend that we fall into
the beds made for us,
that we fall into place like the pieces we become

as each dusk passes,
as the swallows wait,
silhouetted against blood orange sky.

let us not pretend boundary lines fall
in favourable shapes,
or scoff at the child who pushes the cube through the circle,
don’t we know better than that?

we don’t know better than that of yesterday,
we don’t know yet anything of tomorrow,
today blooms like sweet jasmine,

it tastes like newfound love and
it sounds life-giving.