wind
two quick irises
document the sight—of three
little round
glinting tin-
foil baubles—once bought,
once owned,
once
given, once
tangible—now going
twisting,
aimless and
totally haphazard, over
and under one
another—through
the blank infinity
of azure. And at first,
the brain
registers—oh, what a
tragedy! (though, at least
they're still
all in that
mess together);
but then, afterwards—a mind
just might
kick-in
and consider—that it's
nice
how it—just doesn't matter anymore,
whether they
once bore
notes of congratulation,
or
were always meant
to be—consolatory.
