Spill

This is a sipping sun,
a light that tinkles strawly
down through hips of glass.
Poured out round, pale
whisper of a drink,
spilling on the grass
through a cloudy chink.
A winter sky, tumbling
like a blue bowl, dropped,
mumbles shyly to prettier orbs
propped at the counter
of a low horizon.
The sun's song punctures,
comes whinging down
like a stupid child running
screaming about the town.
Back at the bar,
Venus blithely sips
the dated light of day
like a fluted glass
of Chardonnay.