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paper cups

And they fall into place

They
huddle together
in the cold, sparkling'
firecrackers in the icy light
preparing for the flight of their life
secretly none of them wants to be caught in the
streets, or perhaps stepped on by a muddy boot, or
washed away in a river of slush, but as always the ground
hurries to meet them: one by one they fall into place
on a musty road, perhaps or on a church
doorstep, or in between the cracks of the
sidewalk, or maybe on the folds
of a child's cold, pink

tongue





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