It's telling how things are changed by the milestones
we throw out, meanings attached, like a stone
dropped ceremoniously into a pond for the surface waves
to witness. Then the days
that felt the ripple changed pace.
They're gathered each to their respective place
at the bottom. A told method for practicing chance,
when still they'd have fallen. And no forms of romance
required. Not comfort or claim, not even art
is desired by the harsher movement of whatever teases the heart
from its hiding place.