I’d like the balloon
stuck in a tree
left over when I’m gone

to read AMNESIA
and every day there would
be a pilgrimage gathered

at the trunk to watch
the remaining helium
continue to expire

until the only thing left
just a wrinkled sack
dangling in the branches

and the people who are
congregated together will
laugh to themselves

at the resemblance.
Then they’ll forget
what they came there for

and dance in different voices.