"A Jar of Wine" [by Elizabeth Howort]

Why not take a jar of wine
and each day visit the arch?
You can place sandbags at the door
as I wind the stairwell up.

The roof opens wide:
a stretch of park lengthens.
The traffic below is a mosquito
shut in a jar, silent.

You tap the glass—
a life of rush-whizz.
I sip red and gravity
whirs me down.

You list destinations;
I list languages.
You, geology,
I, ruins.

You are the guide
I hold when everywhere
spins, and celerity
overwhelms.  You are

the facts that walk me straight.
Here, on the Grand arch,
Lincoln tips his hat to the South,
a gesture toward unity, you say.

You pour particulars into place:
rings on a tree stump charting
the years, the length of the equator.
I kiss the fact of this empty jar: your mouth.

 -- Elizabeth Howort