I take the fat bottle of wine from the shelf,
the smooth of its label and its dimpled punt
in both my hands as if to weigh it
before palming its slender neck knee-high.

It's placed in a crisp paper bag for me
and then it's swinging against my step,
snug from the stained-white roads,
in quickening tread my grip forgets its hold.

Already my eye gleams its opening
before a swift and satisfying emptying.
Blood pouring bottle dismissed
cork whereabouts, unknown.