The gross inconsequence of limbs
on a light rail almost touching,
almost being victorious
isn’t a holiday.
Your fireworks are on sale
inside your heart mansion.
I am the dismay experienced
when a leg is broken
for the second time,
when the moon hits your window
for the first.
Weak are the braids
we leave in to wed,
the spoons with which we
dine while dreaming.
If you combine the number of war heroes
with the number of times
nobody sneezed on a winter’s bus,
you will only know a fact that’s slightly untrue.
A paper bag only exists with something in it:
a pair of people with wings,
a snow globe purchased for no known reason,
inaction that isn’t yours to hate.