One two three icicles were sitting
hanging on a branch, and the loop
broke that was holding them together.

Then the birch which was wisdom
sneezed at the very idea of hearts.
Who has a heart? I don’t. Surely

you’re just dreaming of the days
that only exist in the minds of children
unused to our hanging ways

or birds that are happy flying in the sky.
Only in happiness can there be hearts
Otherwise no natural light exists.

Then raindrops evaporated into
containers of noise and played
for the seventeenth year, obliterating.


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