A bottle, geometrical glass, its mystical contents contained by wax dripped seven years past.
In it there's brusque matching dresses, white foldout chairs rows upon rows, the beating sun.
An afternoon slathered in sunscreen, swingset haven to our exhilaration.
Crisply: "Be our DJ," and the radio propelled in and out of midday traffic.
Sometimes I wonder where they went–
and if there's no way of getting them back
what happens when the seal is broken, the bottle empty?
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