a poem by Trevor Allan McLeod, Canada

The shade of a swizzle stick
Clank to a glass
Stirring of wet stuff
Cooling of gas

Pleasure from drinking
Washing it 'round
Gushing then gobbling
Drooling it down

Clunk; there's an ice cube
Frosted in vision
Sunken till risen
Expanding with fission

Spinning the cherry
In circles that narrow
Mulching the flavours
Till bones fill with marrow

Blending the colours
In one seemly manner
Tasting the sword
Through lips you have gored

Stabbing the olive
With one splintered pick
Tasting the olive
In one bite that's quick

Laying the napkin
Aside of the glass
The glass starts to dribble
The waitress walks past

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