I didn’t know all along how it would end.
As such. The trees in late February are skinnier than wind chimes.
The graffiti on the building on a diet of streetlight. Disheveled like a poorly thrown frisbee.
As such. The poem is rigged. Like a large body of water at night with a single light shone on it.
Looking for what it lost.
At a young age how to stand in the rain and snow properly.
And because this poem
Needed you. The ephemeral enterprise of being.