A. E. Stallings
There’s never enough of it. The bottle’s full, The glass is to be filled. Call it a flute, Call the effervescence joy or love Or song. Demi-sec’s sweet, and extra brut Is dry, the ratio of alcohol To sugar posed as paradox: liquid drouth, As rising sparkles have a downward pull That brings the lip of crystal to the mouth. Hold the stem: it bears a brittle flower, Calyx of nectar, clear container of What drains away, the bubble of the hour. The satisfying heft’s deceptive: lift The bottle by its throat and tilt it south, Promise of plenty, though all pleasure’s swift And evanescent, and no heart’s exempt, the Vessel seeming heaviest when empty. %CODE_MORE_INTERVIEWS%