Machines lift
your hulking mass
weightless, O
wingless angel
you give
and give

and give.

You are
a huge and creaking
oaken tank
of red grape wine
burst and split,
like the monstrous hull
of an abandoned ship,
and I just hate

how easy it all is
to watch you stagger
comically down the truck’s ramp
like a father drunk,
your shoulders crying
out for a friendly arm,
and the way you look
up at me
in our final moments
with the unsuspecting eyes
of a faithful partner –

O, if only
it was enough
to weep.