Glossolalia

Brown froth congregates round the base of my cup
as I drink in all but the last stubborn drop.
They cling to the periphery like a life preserver,
or a proverb, shielding them from the same
nameless void they embraced
on a Sunday morning when the glass was much fuller.

Each pocket of air deflates upon exposure,
shriveling with a sound so unlike
the primal yawp of the bursting bubbles
I used to blow as a child,
or the defiant cackle of a renegade balloon
that dared fly too close to the sun.

This is the music of the world,
that grows fainter as I grow older.
When, perhaps, the sun and the earth
stop dancing in circles and steal a kiss,
I will get to hear the roar of ten thousand lives
extinguished in a fit of passion.