The whole world is boom and bust inside this tin of wine.

Colorists touch fingertips inside it.

Cellos drop.

Playing it safe won't stop your blood from

painting all the nylon ropes and stencil portraits

from boom

to boom and bust,

won't stop a spiderweb's apothecary

from selling warm venin tie-dyes

with clever headstone stickers.

Any round in an evening of telephone

wells up, overdrinks,

starts electrical fires,

eschews cords, tins, and liquid speech:

a tear becomes a drupelet,

a drupelet a million raspberries,

and these evince food and wine for a

planet of frugivorous bats (and echolocating saints).