the way you see it
as you quench on your haven
and makes array of burps
which affects Poe

it's never far
it's a fragile away
an iceberg away
a throat away.

it breaths at
every stream flows
at every fill
at every screech

it births bubbles-
And continental drifts
and makes north pole float
and glaciers, too
or make avalanches
dragging relative
bubbles up and
disappear together

it's very earthy
brown-like ground
but gets lighter after a
minute resurrected the
Preferences of the tongue
the portrait of
glaciers are still the
same as it was born-
good as infant
but remember, sylvia
it's at hand

be as happy as
the bubbles flying
and bumping each other
with north pole crowds,
melting

the priCe
is devil
the priZe
is angel

and you'll wonder
how patient the
cold things are

to fly by the
ground and return
on their gravestones
and the bubbles
bid their good byes
and wonder how hefe
turned into crema
until the fragiles
get emptied
and consumed
and pen works

faster
and words create commotion-
you can sift less
and the hands are diligent
the world is moving
and eyes seem weary
but are not-
and songs
become louder and
deafening like
prose births to rhythms
Or how versification syncs

think of the skies
they are also bemoaning
and it works that way
so remember-
time ticks shorter
and more unlawful
so remember it's
at hand, sylvia

(This is a story of us finding happiness, sometimes, in a beer. All the above mentioned things have corresponding symbolisms.)