The Party

Everyone walks backward on wine. We are
film reversed on black walls. We run
back into our younger bodies so fast
we fall in love and miss ourselves.
Each says I want to see that part again.
Wine leaps from our mouth to a skin, a car
explodes a bride, some rice, a groom. Stop,
go forward. Someone is in a tree with her,
he is under a pile of coats on your bed.
Look what the light does to their eyes.
We run it backwards until we all laugh
and tears turn to a rain, gray sheets
at the old parties. We drink, we flail
through the dances of lust, we are still
looking for our lost breath. Where is it?