BOWLS

You cannot squeeze
Poetry from words.
Iambic feet must stomp
The pregnant juiceful
Joyful globes to tread out
Memories to tears, to bubbling streams
Of giggles, spears
Of flashing primaries
To stain the world
With grief veined with light,
Bulked bulbous blacks
Speckled with the silver
Of reflection. The words
Are hollow bowls
To catch the vintage.
There is here
Fruit and acid bitterness.