After the Fizz

By the gray rivers flowing, the recently revived, bob along like Champaign corks in the swift current. The dead always pop too soon, even when you pull their corks with long lamentations. The fizz-fuse keeps burning. Morning finds them on-going, restored and drifting among the detritus of our own sad endings. They are not ghosts, you gave them names, but they do not answer when you call. They instead, bump against the riverbanks endeavoring to once again, come ashore.