What We Drag From A Cava Bottle
By Sophie Chouinard
Mea culpas fizzle into the depth of a bottle:
gnawing at her brow the bubbles burst, feather-like
fingers grasping the wind, caressing birdless flocks
rolling high above lips and thighs and seas
drenched in green, echoing within the dark
noon’s blossoms finally escaping
the storms of bleak breathless carbon—
shelter found.
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Lovely images.
I agree with Bobbie.