I do not bottle
myself up anymore. I
no longer push my soul
through the glass neck and
shove the cork in after it.

But underlying the bubbling
explosion of my sentiment
stands the apprehension that I should
stop shaking the champagne, that I should
never have looked so hard for
the corkscrew in the first place.

When the bubbles have finished
rising out of this inadequate container,
less will be left inside the bottle.