tributaries, a complex system of canals and streams delivering red wine to the remote and crucial parts of the body - break the bread drink the wine, it flows without knowing where it's going - there's a route mapped - in white, the kneelength front-pocketed dress of a pale nurse who pokes the needle, jabs for a vein I stare at the fabric of her uniform, bumpy polyester sticking out like goosebumps, the dress cold from the sterility of the examining room I wince as she misses the vein and tries again, the veins, blue and uncertain, squirm against the attack, avoiding the cold steel - stop! stop thinking - that just brings trouble - it's a trap - just flow like blood through a vein, instinctual, sweet, knowing without question - needless questions since it comes anyway, spinning like a wheel - the grass grows thick and tall, burns dry and brown from the sun, dies or lives depending on the rain, without question something will happen while the mailbox waits for the daily ride around the circle, it's mouth open, hungry, expectant