Wine Stop
I’ve stopped. Here in town, where idleness coming of itself stopped my far wandering, I’ve stopped sitting anywhere but deep shade and stopped going out my brambleweave gate. Cuisine stops with mallow. And kids – I’ve stopped enjoying anything so much as kids. I’d drunk nonstop my whole life through, knowing it all felt wrong when I stopped. I tried stopping at dusk, but couldn’t sleep, and stopping at dawn, I couldn’t get up.” Day after day, I’d nearly start stopping, but it never stopped promising metabolic disaster. All I knew was it hurt to stop. I couldn’t see how much stopping offered, but this morning, the virtues of stopping clear at last, I managed a full, dead stop. Setting out from this wine stop, I’ll soon stop by that island of immortals, where youth stops stopping on pure faces. I won’t stop now for countless thousands of years.
translated by: David Hinton