The vessel is too small. The wine runs over, the rich colour of rubies, of garnets in blood, the endless possibilities for contained joy spill across glazed tiles, sparkling and deep at once, taking on new hues with each inch flooded, creating unnamed rainbows still beyond the artisan's brush. Give us a cask! Still it does not cease, filling available space and straining the slats, dribbling through the wood, staining it darker than age, testing the metal, and, finding it imperfect, wrapping its amplitude around the weakest parts. Where is another vessel into which we may channel this excess? Find us a cask, lest we lose this limitlessness, and be forced to live in thirst.