The cold truth lingers in the fountain
As the bubbles of the sweet unreal
Escape ...
It doesn't matter that they instantly burst
What matters is their sense
Of possibility ...
That they might lift away
From the weight on every act
Of caring cruelty ...
Of how we need so much each other
But never quite as much
As ourselves ...
And for this we are wrong somehow
Punished like the babies
A cry is all we know to crow ...
What goes out unreclaimed
And somehow we must piece together
A reply.
