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Veuve Clicquot in a juice glass
Yosemite Sam, guns raised, chasing round
something chipped off the shoulder of the old crock.

Clear here
we bubble up

through glass
a half-melting one
with a bomb a
someone who can
stop
unstop the cork

and burst free
into the evening air
of the marketplace.

A trace of
peaches
tamarind
cinnamon
now gone
is what became of us
rosy, dew-kissed, connected,
rocked to sleep by cool salt breezes, fresh from the sea.