When Moses saw the burning bush, he was asked
to put his cell phone and the bottle on the ground,
and birds had broken the bottle and consumed
every drop of the spilt wine and flown away
laughing at him. The phone was ringing,
but he kept listening to the angelic balderdash,
kept persuading himself that the angel was just a big teetotal bird
and that whoever the hell was calling him,
it wasn’t that important and he would be able to call back
anytime later. The birds loved the wine anyway,
it was the very substance that made them
forget their nests, their private winds,
their personal skies, their speechless prattle.


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