more certain than
'if', he says, central to
life, he says; and when I'm with you,
it feels as if, and says not a thing more. Moscato, she thinks,
puddle in reverse, that raindrops plink out of.
Seen through the empty glass,
his lips fishbowl,
words burst –
the first erupts
into myself; the second, I'm.
Through the glass bottom she sees his tongue
pop out, stoppering the next before it crests.
Moscato, she realizes. Her disabused
finger au naturel,