Love’s first miserable fruits are mashed, and
bubbles of thought are bottled like fizzle
It’s cherry mash on lips of ideas
that sips a lament like grapes, such
lingering thoughts in fermentation, but
bubbles of thought are trapped, and
capped in a soda bottle
for shipping away.
These thoughts of Liz are brewing
like ideas in effervescence, and
bubbles in cherry foam form
a pressure to open a lid
an expectation for fizz, though
a warning label pleads
thought bubbles are trapped.
Don’t shake me; I’ll explode, but
let the bottle break
for foam across the table, for
the genie of the vapor
will make a cloud of bubbles
and tickle laughing Liz.
