Rumi, not Maher
It’s the old rule that drunks have to argue
and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad: He falls into a hold.
But down in that hole he finds something shining,
worth more than any amount of money or power.
Last night the moon cam dropping it’s clothes in the street.
I took it as a sign to start singing,
falling up int the bowl of the sky.
The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
Nothing else to do.
Here’s the new rule: Break the wineglass,
toward the glassblower’s breath.