The empty on the counter accrues others
as if it could grasp.

Bottle top rings the swill along the bottom
in a wet scrim of empty.

When two sets of lips are woven,
leave the mouths alone.

There is not enough to drink. It’s telling:
hearts so glassine will always sink.

The glass upended is a fish-eye lens, unveiling. See:
their threaded mouths upon your empty?

Along the bottle top ring lips stretch,
warped under glass they parabola the sky.

At the window, the world sprays
a milky white. You must leave.

Walk the empty drift of hail,
silty sling of white along the grass.

Ice is simply water stretched. A wide O
upturned to the blank mouth of empty.

To leave is to grasp the sky until
one finger sucks the edge open.

Ah, look how the mouths begin to fall,
white and empty.

Slink on home now. Go. Whine
white hail, empty ice tail in your mouth.

You must leave.
There is not enough to drink.