it sits on my table, sans anything
now, except wishes
it once held [redacted for church family]

the bright yellow-check tablecloth
shines all the clearer in the glass
makes me wonder what sand
blazed in what furnace, and where
just to hold my [redacted]

was it from Ozymandias?
aside those trunkless legs of stone
representing
“lone and level sands far away”
or maybe some beach somewhere
Santorini, Venice, Aruba, Boonesborough

doesn’t matter, for there’s a simpler
solution, than this dreaming
and I stand, on two legs of flesh
retrieve the bottle, and pour
another drink of [redacted]