Do you know the

one about

the drunk Chinese poet

whose heart was so filled

with wine and longing

he fell to his death 

while trying to seize the reflection

of the moon in the water 

beneath his small

wooden boat?

Somewhere he is still falling,

tumbling head first

in darkness

through the centuries,

tethered to that

mathematical paradox

where a falling body 

infinitely halves the distance 

between itself 

and it’s destination 

until they never come to meet,

destined to spend 

eternity in a state 

of foolish longing;

mouth open, eyes half closed

mind blissful in drunken delusion,

happy in thought

as any man alive

before or since.