how to make an accident

There is no end to the vacancy
of what has once been surrounding us:
womb, embrace, room, coffin, body, sky.

Maybe we are born to keep our hands
wringing in the air, in obvious gaps,
searching for things to hold on to.

So it seems appearing to be wise helps,
that we know countless shades of red
and suggest books we have never read.

We always try to fill the empty glass.
Yet it also seems we are not old enough
to think we deserve the perils we create.

Imagine the glass, brimming and untouched.
Imagine the stain on the mahogany.
Imagine the thirst others would have.

Someday, with the back of our hands,
we will tip this glass off the table
to see it splinter into little jigsaw pieces.

We will then note the liquid map surfacing
on the marble, a new topography within reach.
There are desperate measures we resort to.

And this would be one of them:
to stare at space, water in the eyes,
like that pool on the floor, filling some void.