we are lulled by
candlestrewn news-

casts into some sense
of wax-puddled forever,

by the delibility
of asphalt footprints

into the tend-
encies to forget.

dripping elegies
for the fallen, we

count cherry-
blossomed blessings

petal by petal like
a lonely child’s game:

he loves me, he
loves me not. we stain

our subconscious
in pink nostalgia,

as if we, too, knew
the sting of April,

as if we could some-
how make it better, as if

by our crying, the world
would be a better place

come May, the cherry
trees then in full bloom.