We escape
our bright balloons
like helium:
molecule by
molecule the
tug bowed
to our fingers fades,
the strings drawing
ever more
desultory
parabolas,
until we’re left
in a litter of peanut
shells and caramel
residues,
all the grownups
saying it’s either
the anthill or
the monkey house,
make up your mind.
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